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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 






COPYRIGHT, 1911, W. H. WOODS 



PRINTED BY 

THE LORD BALTIMORE PRESS 

BALTIMORE, MD. 



©CI,A2a7t;S8 

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5 Preface 

V With the courteous permission of the several owners 

» of the copyrights, here gladly acknowledged, the author 

* has gathered in this little volume verse which originally 

appeared in Scrihner, The Atlantic Monthly, The Century, 
Harper's Magazine, St. Nicholas, The Youth's Companion, 
The Independent, The Sunday School Times, and other 
periodicals. To this is added other work, some of it 
perhaps of equal importance, which has not hitherto 
appeared in print ; and the whole represents the author's 
avocation during the later years of a long pastorate. 

It has been a pleasure to write these lines. '* Art for 
Art's Sake," and verse for verse's sake, may be a weary 
way apart, it is true, but each has its own reward. And 
if through these broken and not always transparent 
windows, the reader may gain some right vision of the 
author's world, the author shall dwell content. 



W. H. W. 



212 North Carey Street, 
Baltimore. 



TO 

THE LONG-SUFFERING, BUT STILL TOO 

KINDLY CRITICS IN MY 

OWN HOME 



Contents 



Abbot Boniface 32 

Accompanist, The 129 

Aleutian 15 

Anesthetic, The 116 

Angel of The Passion, The. 141 

An Old-fashioned Sport. ... 150 

An Old Man's Prayer 142 

Anteroom, The 9 

Apollo's Song 56 

" Arise, Let us go hence " 155 

At Emmaus 56 

At The Grave of Poe 40 

Backgrounds . . .- 58 

Bedtime 123 

Behind The Scenes 43 

Bellringers, The 26 

Bethel-on-the-Hill 58 

Bluegrass 39 

Children's Praise 153 

Children's Prayer, The. ... 137 

Conjurer, The 98 

Dandelion, The 71 

Discovery, The 124 

Dominion 149 

Dream of Gods, A 99 

Dreamer, The 61 

Dream-wreck 128 

Emmaus Guest, The 155 

End of The Road, The ... ^57 



Fall of The Oak, The 29 

Foreknown 8 

Frogs in April, The 72 

Grandmother's Hair 34 

Great Heart's Heaven 42 

Headache Day 80 

Healer, The 139 

His Hidden One 155 

Homesick 62 

House of Broken Swords. . . 20 

How They Grow 68 

In Old Jerusalem 142 

In San Na-zaro 30 

In That Land 140 

In The Colorado Canon ... 52 
In The New Congressional 

Library 67 

In The Passage 45 

In Trinity Churchyard . . 91 

Jackson's Monument in 

Johanan 147 

June Apples 122 

King's Friend, The 112 

Laddie's Fishing 97 

Last Homing, The 90 

Lightship, The 88 

Like Zaccheus 118 

Lilies' Hymn, The 87 

Mercury 109 



Midnight Train, The .... 5 

MoTORMAN, The 74 

Night Flowers 117 

Old Porch, The 24 

Old School House, The ... 86 

On an Old Violin 12 

On Tantramar 93 

Pan O'Dreams 14 

Path to The Spring, The 48 

Pilate 117 

Pine Tree in Town, The . . 135 

Poets' Land 64 

Prayer of Pan, The 18 

Puritan 68 

Quest, The 108 

Red-winged Starling, The. 79 

River Road, The 76 

Road Builder, The 22 

Road of Dreams, The 114 

Saw Mill, The 82 

Second Sight, The 154 

Seer, The 7 

Shepherd's Voice, The .... 136 



Sighing in the Pines, The 144 
Song of The Grass, The . . 54 
Song of the Mauser Bul- 
let, The 53 

St. Stephen's Vision 157 

Stream That Came to Town, 

The 44 

Stoker 46 

Sycamores u 

Test, The 147 

Three Trails, The 26 

To A Young Hospital Nurse 49 

Track- Walker, The 51 

Tree of Love, The i?j 

Tybee's Bell 84 

Unaware 35 

Village Street, The 95 

Voyagers 60 

Waiting World, The ijS 

When Amy Went 70 

When The Bees Swarm . . 105 

When The Door Opens . . 78 

Wicket Gate, The 151 

Worker and His Work, The 120 



The Midnight Train 

It rolls up out of dreams — 
Sometimes it wakes me in Himal'yan snow, 
Sometimes in Kandahar I hear it blow, 

As round the mountain gleams 
The Cyclops headlight, and I catch the roar 
Cushioned with distance till it sounds no more 

Than snow-fed April streams. 

But quickly moves anear 
And now, still hissing, at the station stands 
This nightmare monster out of dragon lands; 

Then on my waiting ear 
Bells ring; and dim-lit squares, uncoiling slow, 
Like dragon scales, across the orchard go 

And past the hillside clear. 

So nigh the coaches glide 
That sometimes at the window where I wait 
I catch swift glimpses of their silken state — 

The gay world in its pride 
I see go by ; anon, a hectic face 
Fleeing the plague ; and oft in youthful grace 

The bridegroom and the bride. 

They're faring south, they say. 
To those bright regions where the only snows 
Are pink and golden, and surnamed The Rose ; 

Joys, half a year away 
From these bleak hills and skies of wintry gloom, 
For yon blest pilgrims shall wear summer bloom 

When once more night is day. 



THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The townsfolk round me spread 
Stir in their sleep, and say, " She's late, to-night. 
— Awake, ye sleepers ! When was ever sight 

Or sound like this that sped. 
This roaring earthquake through the darkness hurled! 
Not Phaethon's coursers so might shake the world 

When first the dawn they led. 

Nay, nor so dread to view 
The fiery car that swept the Tishbite home ; 
Triumphs acclaimed in Babylon and Rome 

Did punier pomp endue. 
And vanished gods, around the Trojan gate 
Ramping of old, in far less godlike state 

Their mimic axles drew. 

But Oh! to go like this 
When we too change our planets ! Not with moan 
Nor yet to start in silence and alone. 

But parting-pangs to miss, 
And crowned and charioted, th' abyss to win. 
And thus on all worlds waiting, thunder in, 

And taste the conqueror's bliss ! 

'Tis gone. Like August streams 
Dwindling, in distance dies the less'ning roar ; 
The sparks are dead ; the red rear lights no more 

Send back their warning gleams. 
Far down in Kandahar the whistles blow, 
And now I lose them in Himal'yan snow — 

The train rolls on in dreams. 



THE SEER 



The Seer 

" Courage ! " he whispered through his stiffening lips. 
" I scent the flood, I see the beckoning tips 
Of wind-blown palms." They cried, "O phantom-curst, 
Mock not thy brethren when they die of thirst." 

" Cool, cool, the crisping wave ! " His dying moan 
Was still but this. They left him there alone, 
And groping hopeless through the wastes around, 
The wind-blown palm-trees by the waters found. 

" Alas ! " they cried then, " While we drink our fill. 
Our seer died thirsting." '* Nay, the desert still 
Bounds us," one said, " And but this trampled stream 
Our lips have drunk: his, of his crystal dream." 




THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Foreknown 

" O thou that comest past the stars, 
And past the utmost bound that bars 

Us from unguessed infinity, 
What hast thou seen along the road, 
What marvels vast thy pathway strewed, 
The long, long path to Calvary ? " 
/ saw the sower down his hrozvn fields striding, 

Fling wide the fruitful grain, 
I sazv the foxes in the old tombs hiding 
By white towns veiled in rain." 

" But this we that are men may see — 
Did no great Voices speak with thee 

A journeying to Jerusalem? 
Thou that hast walked with Life and Death 
In lands forbid to mortal breath, 

What secrets were unloosed of them?" 
/ heard the games the children's feet were ivinging 

There in your markets met, 
I heard the price two tiny birds were bringing — 
That I remember yet." 

" Nay, Lord, but show some wonder done, 
Now, or in times ere time begun, 

That flashes worth Thy Deity; 
Light with a look a new-made world, 
Or stay the swift hours onward whirled. 
Till we forget Gethsemane." 
/ kneiv, I knezv, ere Eden's rose zvas blozving, 

Prick of the twisted thorn — 
The nails, the darkness, and the zvarm blood ilozving, 
I knezv — and I zv2iS born." 



THE ANTEROOM 



The Anteroom 

The door behind us closed, 
Silent as sunset; for no alien sound 
May break the stillness of that peace profound 

Where, round the hall disposed, 
The mothers lay; and some with hands outspread. 
And some with warm arms round a childish head, 

'Neath shadowy arches dozed. 

They lay down worn and old. 
As Time had left them; but the while they slept 
A silent change across their faces crept, 

Like young day's rose of gold 
On the gray cheeks of night, and slumbers sooth 
All the old glories of their vanished youth 

Restored them manifold. 

No shrined saints were they. 
But meekly ranged them with that womanhood 
On earth too weary to be greatly good, 

And toiling on alway, 
Their chiefest heaven, their hopes of being blest. 
Grew but to this — that God would grant them rest— 

And now at rest they lay. 

The lofty roof was dim, 
If roof there was; for wisps and shapes of things 
With wind-blown hair and clouds of moving wings 

High overhead did swim 
When I looked up, and sometimes childlike eyes 
Looked down upon me, grave, and strangely wise, 

Under a halo's rim. 



10 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Three pictured windows showed 
Morning, and eve, and moonlit midnight high, 
Each storied true, but each a dying sky — 

And where the softest glowed, 
That saffron window named, " The Star of Even," 
A stairway clomb ; they said it clomb to heaven, 

And once was angels' road. 

Fireflies lit up the gloom, 
And drowsy winds went waving to and fro 
A thousand roses now about to blow, 

And in the dusky room 
— Or room or garden — round each sleeper's bed 
Dream-faces shone, and golden visions spread, 

Woven in Slumber's loom. 

And yet not wholly still 
Was that still place, nor always wrapped in sleep 
Those quiet shapes ; their folded trances deep 

They loosed and left at will ; 
Sometimes a child laughed ; once a bell struck one, 
And a voice cried, "The night is just begun. 

Sleep on — your dreams fulfil.'' 

So one by one they win 
At last to heaven ; for evermore there went 
Through the vast room a thrill, a wonderment — • 

I heard a song begin, 
Remote, unspeakable ; a door swung wide, 
And some glad mother waking, glorified, 

Arose and entered in. 



SYCAMORES ii 



Sycamores 

They love no crowded forest dark, 

They dimb no mountains high, 
But ranged along the pleasant vale 

Where shining waters lie, 
Their brown coats curling open show 

A silvery undergleam, 
Like the white limbs of laughing boys 

Half ready for the stream. 

What if they yield no harvests sweet, 

Nor massive timbers sound, 
And all their summer leafage casts 

But scanty shade around ; 
Their slender boughs with zephyrs dance, 

Their young leaves laugh in tune. 
And there's no lad in all the land 

Knows better when 'tis June. 

They come from groves of Arcady, 

Or some lost Land of Mirth, 
That Work-a-day and Gain and Greed 

May not possess the earth, 
And though they neither toil nor spin, 

Nor fruitful duties pay, 
They also serve, mayhap, who help 

The world keep holiday. 



12 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



On an Old Violin 

Men say Stradivari made it. 

Here's the faded name — 
And that Paganini played it, 

At his topmost fame. 
But an unguessed chisel shaped it. 
Unseen fingers moved the bow ; 
Magic not in mortal hands, 
Powers, no human skill commands. 
Life and love and sorrow blended 

In this worn shell long ago. 

For this gem of joiner's art 
Was of old a pine-tree's heart, 
Harkening, hoarding wild-wood music 

In a living treasury — 
Yon deep chords our senses shaking 
Like some mighty harp-strings breaking 

(Now 'tis Sarasate's bow), 
Are not art, but memory — 

So makes moan a falling tree. 

Long it lay in castle wall, 
Roofing feast and funeral. 
Looking down on smoking torches, 
Griefs that chill, and love that scorches. 

Peace and turmoil, sleep and strife ; 
Shouts of men, and maidens' laughter. 
Song, and sighs that tremble after, 
These the dusky roof-tree heard. 

Listening at the doors of life. 



ON AN OLD VIOLIN 



13 



One red night the castle fell, 

And the charred beam came to dwell 

In a peasant's cabin lowly, 
Builded in the chimney-breast ; 

Watched and heard the mother slowly 
Croon a tired child to rest ; 
Pondered long on simple arts 
Known alone to loving hearts. 
Till that day the master spied it, 

Plucked it forth and shaved it thin, 
Smoothed it, shaped it, stringed and tried it. 

And, behold ! the violin. 

'Twas not Stradivari made it. 
No, nor Paganini played it. 

All alone ; 'tis these, I ween. 
Living, learning, loving, serving, 

Make a man or violin. 




14 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Pan O'Dreams 

" What dost thou here where the shivering reeds 
Lean over the dark marsh streams, 

O piper a-piping thy haunting tunes 

That dwindle and die on the dim lagoons 
In the waning autumn's gleams ? " 

And the piper said under his flying hair, 
" I set me my nets for dreams." 

" But do the dreams fly on the open marsh 
By daylight? And these thy snares, 

Where are they?" He lifted his stately head 

And his lean brown fingers fluttering spread 
And played ; and the by-gone airs 

Blew out of a summer of long ago 

And lands where a lost love fares 

Till June came back o'er the whispering reeds 
And pranked them in emerald plumes — 

(Oh, the sky was blue and the day was long!) 

And the bubbling notes of the starling's song 
Rang over the elder-blooms. 

And the dark marsh waters in ripples ran 
Far down in the grassy glooms. 

Then he softlier blew, and the low winds woke 

That whimper about the sills 
And the doors, when the wintry day is done. 
And the warmth and joy are gone with the sun, 

Gone down behind lonely hills — 
When a hush falls over the children's glee 

At dusk in the desolate hills. 



ALEUTIAN 



And never a lane nor a laughing brook 

By memory's meadows lay, 
But the cunning notes found a track to it, 
And my gladdening heart won back to it 

By the piper's path that day, 
For his are the keys of the world that is 

And worlds that are worlds away. 

And under the tunes came a tingling joy 
That ran in my veins like wine — 

" O piper, thy nets are most strange," I cried, 

" And their meshes of golden memories tied, 
But the things you snare are mine." 

" My pipes are the heart of the world," he said, 
" And dreams that are mine are thine." 



Aleutian 

Mists are his heavens. His moon behind a veil, 
Unseen, her silvern circle slowly fills ; 
How fair in twilight pale 
Are shy young stars down vistas in the hills 

He knows not, nor the golden pomps of June, 
When high o'erhead by shimmering bastions hoary 

The sun in tranquil glory 
Goes westering down some star-deep, blue lagoon; 
But spindrift clouds his island outlines blur, 
And long rains round him purr. 
And ceaseless fogs, of Asian sea winds borne, 

Swirl in, till night and noon 
Are writ in one dull Arctic character. 

Alike of shadow and of shining shorn. 



i6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Our tumult of the street, 

Trample of feet, 
Harsh roaring wheels and throbbing bells and cries. 
To that swart islander were strangest dream — 

Save when the tempest flies, 

No mightier voices rise 
Than barking seal-herds, or the sea-bird's scream. 

All round his isles ; and tales of tower and dome 
Seem but a shipwrecked stranger's rude romancing 

To him whose vagrant home 
Is a light kayak mid the whitecaps dancing 

In wild seas west of Nome. 

For him no ripe fields rustle. 

Waiting the fruitful bustle 
Of harvest-scenes, nor autumn orchards bending 
Beneath their painted burdens, perfume lending 

To every passing air — 
'Tis his to reap the unsown waters wide. 

To strike the salmon swift in swinging sea, 
Silent as foam across the foam to glide 

Among the basking seals before they flee ; 

And if no garden fair 

Allure his care. 
No bit of heavenly blue in blossoms molden, 

Nor roses red nor golden 
Gladden his path, yet sometimes round the year 

A great hand sweeps the curtains from his skies. 
And spired auroras dazzling up the sphere 

Foreshow him Paradise. 



ALEUTIAN 17 



No race behind him lies, 

Rooted in memories, 
No shining deeds with such rare art rehearsed 

That men are nigh forgetting 

The jewel in the setting — 

His lonely soul is versed 
In one scant tongue ; a few rough shards of speech 

Serve all his need; but when beneath the moon 
That still sets sidewise down the frozen beach, 

In the dim hut he hears his wife's low croon. 
His first-born's gurgling laugh, well knows he then 
That song, that laughter, speaks all tongues of men. 

What if to him the storied past is dumb. 

Or, finding speech, but stirs a troubled doubting? 
Can Caesar's ashes warm the fingers numb? 

What helps Achilles" shouting. 

Or hinders. Helen's pouting, 
Far by Scamander and the doomed wall. 

To him whose spear-long barque of lightest leather 
'Mid ghostly icebergs towering Andes-tall, 

Must Arctic tempests weather? 

Nay, 'tis not Art alone, 
Nor sad-eyed centuries of weary lore. 

Nor rugged northern zone. 
With hard-earned harvests wrung from watery floor, 
Makes men or mars ; in Heaven's eternal plan 
'Tis living only makes a man a man. 



The Prayer of Pan 

"But I, I have no soul ! " — 

The voice arose, 
Man's tone, but with an intake spent and slow 
And shuddering, like a child's ; while twilight gray 
Between the dawn and day, when old men die, 
Wrapped the wet woods, and made the ruined shrine 
And that goat-footed shape that huddled there 
Shadowy as dreams. 

And startled night-folk shy 
With poised foot and doubting senses heard 
The prayer of Pan. 

"Wilt thou not let me be, 
'^y \j Thou harrier of Olympus? All are gone, 
■/J^ A Gone and forgot, who once kept court with Jove, 
'^ ^ '' ' Save only me, and me thou foUowest hard. 

I know thee, who thou art, and whom thou madest 

Thy messenger ; for once in Jericho 

In the fig-orchards hid, unseen I saw, 

(Unseen of men, but naked still to thee,) 

Saw Him whose name thou wilt not let me speak, 

Stoop down and take from woman-arms a babe, 

And knew him mother of all motherhood, 

By what dread names so e'er in other worlds 

They throne him. But for me, he will not look 

On me. I have no soul," 

He paused, and still 
The drear autumnal rain forgot to drip, 
And winds of daybreak, on which passing souls 
Go winging hence, were dumb : they had not known 
Till now what wailing meant. 

"Why must I die," 
Again the pleading-voice — "who am not man. 
And yet not all a beast, but, beast or man, 
Wholly thy creature's creature, and not thine? 
I have not fought against thee, but of old 
Believed and trembled; 3'ea, thou pitiful 
To all but me, be judge if poor old Pan, 
Goat-hoofed, goat-hearted, piping in the wood 
His silly tunes, e'er set himself for ill 
To aught of thine? And yet thou bidd'st me now 
Die, and be done. Be done ! No more to see 
How silently the earth puts on the day, 
And witli what conscious majesty the stars 
Into their kingdom come; to hear no more 
Converse of growing leaves, and winds at play, 
And silvery-laughing streams; nor aye at dusk 
When dewy breezes o'er the copses sigh, 
To scent the flowers of night. To die, to cease, 



And mid quick Nature's teeming turmoil, lie 
Mere earth, a clot of trampled ooze ! Alas, 
Would I had been thy beast, thy sparrow small, 
The happy, worthless thing that, falling, knows 
Its Maker by, and watching. Kind art thou, 
Yea, kind to all thine own ; but I am Pan, 
The beast, outcast, unowned, and dying." 

Then 
A sudden wind arose, and ceased : a sound, 
A sense of some great footstep coming, shook 
The bristling wood : all earth was ear : ev'n stones 
Listened by curdling brooks, and 'neath the hills 
The dawn itself stood waiting. He who prayed 
Had now an unseen audience. 

"Lo, I go. 
As Jove went and his compeers," thus the voice, 
Now but a whisper low; "y^t, ere I pass. 
One boon I crave, who have not asked before 
Or gift or grace : — Thou unforgetting God, 
Forget who calls thee now, and smiling down. 
Think me a man, thy foolish, erring man, 
Who, childlike, oft hath brought his bruised heart. 
And cried thee, 'Oh ! and Oh, my Father ! ' Yea, 
As such an one appraise me; yet not now 
Send help or pity, but for once, ay, once. 
Give me to praise. Lend me a human soul, 
And teach me hallelujahs ! " 



Was it heard. 
Who knows? But sweet, 



Oh. 



That pagan prayer? 

sweet. 
The charmed air that now, not sound alone, 
But ripest harvests of each single sense 
Thrilled on the ear. Moonlight was there, and dew, 
The violet's fragrance, and the thrush's hymn, 
Grace of the fawn, and touches silken-soft 
As moving shadows' kisses, married all 
In that one throbbing psalm. Yea, and white dreams 
That lonely haunt Himalayan peaks remote 
Of Manhood, things too high, too faint, too far. 
For spoken prayer or praising, in that strain 
Poured forth their worship, till the dreary wood 
Seemed Eden ere the first star-songs of dawn 
Lapsed into silence. 

Thrice the music soared 
And sank. And last, again that sobbing breath, 
"My Father, Oh, my Father ! " broke and ceased. 
And day's red lances pierced the silent shrine. 









20 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The House of Broken Swords 

On one side marshes met the snarling sea, 
And on the other three gaunt mountain peaks 
Shot up 'mid screaming eagles ; and between, 
Beetling above an inky tarn, upclomb 
That hostelry. 

Cloud-high it loomed, and dark 
As Amazonian forests. Far overhead 
Its shadowy roof, sometimes but spindrift dim, 
Sometimes was heaven, with lucent twilight skies 
Besprent with stars ; and round each echoing hall 
From carven ambrys quaint, old storied arms 
Blazoned the walls. There on Goliath's blade 
Goliath's blood still rusted ; there sea-born 
Excalibur flaunted his wizard hilt. 
And Soldan's yataghan and Richard's brand 
Hung with the baton that in Caesar's grasp 
Dispeopled nations. 

But the loftiest nave 
In that strange house was hung with broken swords. 
Whereof the chiefest three had shields beneath 
Scrolled each with shining names. One shield was hi; 
Who long time humbled Rome, and one, blood-red, 
Recalled the Corsican ; and last, a shield 
Now wet with old men's tears, proclaimed the chief 
Whose ramparts linger 'mid Virginian pines. 
Untenanted the place, to casual eyes. 
And silent ; but anon began afar 
Onset of armed feet, and thunders rolled, 



THE HOUSE OF BROKEN SWORDS 21 



(Thunders or battle), and a hand unseen 
Lifted a veil ; and Lo ! a marching host 
Swept through the aisles, while on amazed ears 
Sea-like uprose the Prayer of Beaten Men. 

We are the fallen, who with helpless faces 

Hid in the dust, in stiffening ruin lay, 
Felt the hoofs beat, and heard the rattling traces 

As o'er ns drove the chariots of the fray. 

We are the fallen, who by ramparts gory 
Awaiting death, heard the far shouts begin, 

And with our last glance glimpsed the victor's glory 
For which we died, but dying might not win. 

We were but men. Always our eyes were holden. 
We could not read the dark that walled us round, 

Nor deem our futile plans with thine enfolden — 
We fought, not knoiving God zvas on the ground. 

Give us our own; and though in realms eternal 
The potsherd and the pot, belike, are one. 

Make our old world to know that with supernal 
Pozuers zve are matched, and by the stars o'erthrozvn. 

Aye, grant our cars to hear the foolish praising 
Of men — old voices of our lost home-land. 

Or else, the gateways of this dim world raising, 
Give us our swords again, and hold thy hand." 

Thus prayed they; and no spoken answer fell, 
But whoso watched, saw the dark roof again 
Flash into sudden heaven aglow with stars 
That aimed their light straight as the glance of God, 
On those three shields beneath the broken swords. 



22 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Road Builder 

Nature to him had lent 
In meek abandonment 
Her Titan powers, and loosed her wonted laws ; 

His clock-timed lightnings clove the lonely hills 
Close on the echoes of his clinking drills, 
And when the mountain's breast 
His mimic earthquakes ploughed, in wondrous pause 
One leap below the crest, 
He fixed in stable rest 
The granite avalanche ; and there his ringing 

Steel ribands wind, and mile-long cargoes ride, 
And little children singing 

Go by, where once young eagles yellow-eyed 
Screamed from their eyries clinging 

He seemed to us the Spirit of To-day 
Exultingly incarnate; even his play 
Sat on him tense as sunlight on a sword ; 

No soft Delilah-dream 
With white arms clinging clogged his soul's endeavor, 

Nor for vain worlds that seem, 
But worlds that are, we thought his strength was poured 
As if the Now and Here meant all Forever. 
Not his the backward glance of sad-eyed seer, 
But front of pioneer, 
Head up, eyes kindling, face to face with life. 
And high heart leaping with the joy of strife — 
Poets for song, and priests for prayers and creeds, 

But to us watching here, 
Song, prayers, and life, love, all he wrought in deeds. 



THE ROAD BUILDER 23 I 

! 

But blind, blind hearts still are we at the best! 

We had not guessed i 

What thoughts far-ranging hived in that keen brain ; 

Sometimes a little wonder, J 

We hid, our praises under, 
Sometimes his whirling words smote us in vain. 

And to his shining look 
Turned we bewildered by the thing he spoke — 

" John was a Voice," he laughed once, " I, a hand 
Cast up the King's highway across the land, 

Or ere He comes again." 
" Nay, man, What King? " we cried him. " All for gold 

Your labors manifold ; 
The fields, the mines, to mart. 
The world to fetch and carry — this your part." 
And smiling still, above his figured chart 

He bent him as of old. i 

But that wild night he died, 
Watching his couch beside, 

Faint and afar we heard a sudden rolling j 

Of giant wheels, and great bells booming, tolling, < 
Till the air trembled, and the solid ground; 

It grew, it thundered past, \ 

Whelming all senses in the sense of sound, I 

And, hushing wonder to an awe profound, j 

Away in distance and to silence drew ; i 

And faint and far across horizons vast ■ 

A long, low whistle blew. 

And our road builder, when j 

That mighty passing ceased, had ceased from men. \ 

Earth-man we thought him once, with chain and rod — 
That night, that way, a prophet went to God. 



24 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Old Porch 

We did not ask in those old days 

If it looked east or west, 
To our young eyes the landscape there 

Of all the world was best ; 
The steps led out to hills of home, 

Known fields and meadows low 
With childhood's morning glory lit — 

What more was there to know? 

The little wild things loved it, too, 

The pewee and the wren — 
The squirrel from the oak near by 

Would frolic there, and when 
Our laughing Patty's harmless broom 

Had chased him to his limb, 
He'd sit and scold at her as if 

The porch belonged to him. 

The slim, unpainted pillars gray. 

The roof where mosses met, 
The wabbly banisters, the bench, 

The battered croquet-set, 
I see them all, and all embowered 

When June was at its height, 
With rose-bloom thick as clustered stars 

Some keen December night. 



THE OLD PORCH 



25 



There father's home-made chair all day 

Its waiting arms outspread, 
But might not clasp that sturdy shape 

Till daylight's tasks were sped. 
Then in the dusk came mother's voice 

And Patty's low replies — 
The honeysuckle's breath around. 

The young moon in the skies. 



And if at times our glances caught 

A glimpse of marble pale 
Against the drooping cedars dark 

Beyond the garden's rail. 
It brought no aching thoughts of those 

Who there in quiet lay. 
For even our vanished ones we felt 

Were still not far away. 

They say the place is haunted now. 

But if the tale were true 

If Heaven would but a single hour 

Of those old times renew, 
Not all the gain nor ease nor power 

That cheats a world of men 
Could keep me ; on my knees I'd go 

To that old porch again. 




26 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Three Trails 

They all led out of my Vale of Youth, 

A white path over the hill, 
A whispering stream, and a spire of smoke 

In the windless dawning chill. 

The white road led to the Towers of Gain, 

The river, to Far Romance, 
But the way of the smoke was lost, I thought, 

In the void of heaven's expanse. 

Now I am back from the Towers of Gain, 

And little I brought away — 
My river is long gone dry; but here 

In the windless twilight gray 

Is the heavenward trail of old; and soon 

With my pilgrim-staff in hand, 
I go, a pillar of smoke my guide, 

To look for the Promised Land. 



The Bellringers 

" Ye shall mind him well," was the voice they heard 
"With a hidden and skilled upholding; 

Ye shall strike your tunes to a haunting word 

In his ears, till the deeps of life are stirred. 
And the marvel of his unfolding 

Soul in your sight shall be precious to see ; 

Now, hasten ; and rich shall your service be." 



THE BELLRINGERS 27 



Irland and Hilph and Gzvernalo, 

These zvere the three that were sent — 
Irland zvas grave and strong and slow. 

But Hilph ever dancing went — 
One had a hell of crystal sheen, 

And one had a hell of gold, 
And one had a lily-hell, all green. 

With a strange name round it scrolled. 

And they came to a sad-eyed silent man 
With a surgeon's wonderful fingers 
For the scalpel keen and the curved trepan — 
But his dreams were dead ere his fame began, 

Though the memory in him lingers 
Of the pulse and lift of the poet's heart 
God asked, and he gave, for the healer's art, 
Irland would strike a sound of war 

That rolled with a stirring tone 
Like drum-heats, sometimes heard afar 

By the haunted man alone; 
Sometimes it came at the tahle grim 
Where his needful task zvas done. 
And mazed his so\il, and thrilled in him 
In tumult of triumphs won. 

The fame of his art blew over the land, 

But anon came a whisper stealing 
Of stranger things than the skill of his hand — ■ 
Men said he would pause and listening stand 

In the midst of perilous dealing, 
And under his touch, in their gropings dim, 
The sick folk babbled of heavenly hymn. 



28 



THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Not half might careless mortals dream 

Of the mirth Hilph's music told, 
But far on high the living stream 

When it hears that bell of gold, 
hs rippling zvaters backzfard rears 

As if it zvoiild climb the hill. 
And never a praying seraph hears 

And keeps at his praying still. 

But the wonder grew, and the whispered speech 

At his back, under bent hands hiding — 
What then? Could his fingers but heahng reach, 
Or the help that a sick child's eyes beseech, 

Little cared he for men's deriding; 
And while the world pitied a great man mad. 
He wrought and he listened' and grew more glad— 
Till on a time when Gwernalo 

With his lily-bell of green 
' Gan slowly szving it to and fro 

With a ringing cry between, 
And that strange zvord around it scrolled 

Leaped into a living flame. 
And earth no more the man might hold 
When the heavens called his new name. 




THE FALL OF THE OAK 



20 



The Fall of the Oak 

With front majestic o'er his fellows lifted, 
Three hundred years he watched the dawn come in. 

Turn its long lances on the night-mists drifted, 
And slope by slope the world to daylight win. 

The gaunt gray figure at his vitals striking 

Seems but an infant to the ancient tree 
Whose youth looked down on grandsons of the Viking 

And rough newcomers from an unknown sea. 

He saw Winonah's wigwams careless cluster 

Where now the corn-shocks camp in ordered files. 
And heard low thunders of the bisons' muster 

Where clouds of sheep now fleck the fertile miles. 
Much, much has passed him down the ages ranging. 

Old names of men, old towns and states and wars— 
The fields, the ways, the very earth went changing— 

He only stood— he and the steadfast stars. 
And now, alas ! low, low behind him wheeling 

Sinks the red sun he shall not see go down, 
And his own crest, in strangest ruin reeling. 

Droops not the slowlier for its long renown. 

The woods look on in silent grief attending. 

The winds no mourning make around his stem- 
Too weak their wailing for a giant's ending— 

The oak's own downfall is his requiem, 

And now begins; his great heart-strings are breaking; 

His branches tremble ; now his mighty head 
He stoops, and then, the hillside round him shaking. 

With whirlwind roar falls crashing prone and dead. 



30 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



And watched afar by many a frowning column 
The woodman homeward moves while shadows run, 

And leaves behind him in the twilight solemn 
Three hundred years of life and work undone. 



In San Na-zaro 

In San Na-zaro's gardens 

The nightingales are still — 
They know a sweeter voice than theirs 

Is passing from the hill. 
And the white rose and the crimson 

Their heads are bending low — 
For roses lie on Lucia's breast, 

And Lucia does not know — ■ 
Pale roses, all too lightly clasped 

In hands as cold as snow. 

In San Na-zaro's cloisters, 

By one dim altar-light. 
The gray-haired monks are met to judge 

Their youngest anchorite ; 
For Hugo knelt in open hall 

When passing-prayers were read, 
And kissed with white and shaking lips 

The still face of the dead — 
" The love I might not give to Life 

I give to Death," he said. 



IN SAN NA-ZARO 



31 



The monks of San Na-zaro 

Their doom have spoken now — 
They cannot know when breaking hearts 

Assoil a broken vow, 
But in the funeral chamber 

Amid the dim-lit gloom 
The pale buds laid on Lucia's breast 

Unfold in perfect bloom, 
And that calm smile the dying lips 

Had lost, the dead resume. 

And in Na-zaro's gardens 

Now when the night is dim, 
Young Hugo comes, and nightingales 

Have songs alone for him, 
And the white rose and the crimson 

All down their bending rows 
Lean close to touch his clasped hands 

And whisper, as he goes, 
" Thy kiss hath waked a heart in heaven ; 

She knows now ; Lucia knows." 




32 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Abbot Boniface 

Wrinkled, ascetic, and grim. 

With little of fault or whim. 
And little of sunny and human mould 
Where the seeds of liking might find a hold — 

Such was Father Boniface, 

The abbot of rich old Allonby Chase, 
And nigh fourscore years old. 

From a life spent in the thick 

Of feud with the heretick. 
Or in ruling with strong hand small and great 
Inside or in sight of the abbey gate, 

He came at the last to die. 

And, meek enough now, in chapel m,ust lie 
In pomp he used to hate. 

In heaven they gave him a guide. 

Who, shining there at his side, 
Said, " Now to the great ones first shall we seek. 
Here are Fathers Syrian, Spanish, Greek, 

And Fathers, of course, of Rome ; 
And some from the uttermost kingdoms come. 

And strange, unchurchly clique." 

The peace on the abbot's face 

xA.t this was lessened a space, 
But he said no word, and the angel tall 
Lead on till they came to a garden wall — 

The towers of the place were seven. 

And it lay on the sunset side of heaven 
Where twilight glories fall. 



ABBOT BONIFACE 33 



'Twas a fair place and a wide, 

And garnished on every side 
With riot of bloom, and the birds and the bees 
Kept tune to the tinkle of streams at ease. 

And many a gurgling shout 

From the dimpled crew in the grass rang out 
High on the listening breeze. 

Then hard by the opien gate 

The abbot cried aloud, " Wait, 
I pray thee, O angel, and quickly tell 
What bright ones are these? " And he said, " Here 
dwell 

The souls of the children small 

Who died in the wreck of their fathers' fall. 
Too young to know they fell." 

" Yon lad at play by the brook 
Was Korah's son : when they took 
White Ashkelon's towers, and the people slew, 
Like doves, all the little souls this way flew ; 

The child of the Canaanite 

Has a welcome here in the high God's sight 
As warm as has the Jew." 

" Sayest thou ! They are orphans, then," 

Said Boniface; and again, 
"May an old man enter? And childless too?" 
And then at the answer, eagerly drew 

Nigh an Amalekite maid 

Of three, who alone by a rose-tree played. 
And letting the rose leaves through 



34 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Pink fingers, watching his face, 
She laughed with a baby grace, 
And held out her arms. And the guide went on 
To the great — if great ones he sought — alone. 
But Boniface in the thick 
Of the heathen seed and the heretick 
Found heaven and heartsease won. 

Grandmother's Hair 

It has not the glory of red, red gold, 

Nor the glimmer of ebon tresses, 
And she wears it now in as plain a fold 

As the kerchiefs of Quaker dresses. 
But I wonder still, as I mark it there 

In the glow of the lamps illuming, 
If the earth has another flower as fair 

As the head of an old saint blooming. 

They say it was brown when the years were young, 

With a ripple of sunlight braided, 
And the shimm'ring coils on her shoulders hung- 

But the sunlight long ago faded, 
And slowly the moonlight came in its place, 

Till the gray and the dark locks twining, 
Grew into a silvery sign of grace 

In the gleam of the white hairs shining. 

There are maidens yet 'neath the old roof-tree — 

There are Aileen, Anna, and Gary, 
And naught do they lack that a maid must be 

That's dainty and modest and merry. 
And still there's a tinkle of soft guitars 

On the porches when shadows darken, 
And a whispered plea 'neath the music's bars 

For an ear that will bend to hearken. 



UNAWARE 35 



And grandmother smiles at the broken tune- 
Do they think she does not remember? 

There are tints of the dawn that died in June 
In the sunsets of chill December, 

And not with the day is the moon made new, 
But she grows with the growing even, 

And the best of our morning dreams come true 
In the twilight that's nearest heaven. 

And so she sits there in the lamplight clear 

With a smile for the children's greeting, 
And she dreams at times of the parting near, 

And again, of the coming meeting. 
But we, as we gaze on the lustrous hair, 

Read the truth in its marvel hoary. 
And know that the blessed may sometimes wear. 

Ere they leave us, their crowns of glory. 



Unaware 

" Children, tell me who was she 
Dancing with you on the lea? 
That bright maid of mien beguiling, 
Sometimes sad and sometimes smiling, 
But with witching sweetness wiling 

All your hearts away — • 
Was it elfin maid, or human. 
Princess fay, or budding woman, 

Led your games to-day ? " 
Then again I heard her laughter. 
And the children dancing after 

Said not yea or nay. 



36 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



" Who was with you, lovers twain, 
Yonder in the moonlit lane? 
Young she seemed and maiden-slender. 
Yet might Psyche nothing mend her 
Phantom grace, nor Venus lend her 

Aught of beauty new — 
Once I watched her bend and whisper- 
Did she in that speaking lisp her 

Name and fame to you ? " 
" Nay," the lovers said in wonder, 
" None was in the rose-lane yonder. 

None beside us two." 

" Mother, in whose brooding eyes 
Shine low lights of Paradise, 
When the sunset skies of amber 
Paint the west, and in the chamber 
Sleepy-head at last would clamber 

Up the waiting knee. 
Round ye both her white arms twining 
Standeth one in raiment shining, 

Wondrous fair to see — 
Can this be the Mary-mother?" 
Soft she answered, " Here's no other 

But my child and me." 

" Soldier, in thy stern delight 
Headlong charging down the fight. 
Who is she above you gliding 
Like an ancient goddess guiding 
Heroes forth, and still dividing 
With them triumphs won? 



THE END OF THE ROAD 2,7 



Not more brave was Trojan Hector, i 

Not more proud the Trojan's victor, I 

Far by Ilion." j 

" Vex me not with phantom woman," i 

Cried the soldier, " Lo, the foeman , 

Wavers ! Ride, ride on ! " 



Seeking still and still distraught, 
To the sage my quest I brought, 
" Tell me, father, what this haunting 
Vision is, this changing, taunting, 
Woman shape, the world enchanting. 

Yet that none confess ; 
Is it trick of necromancy. 
Or some bright mirage of fancy. 

Gilding men's distress?" 
Something far beyond him eyeing, 
" That," the wise man answered sighing, 

'■ That is Happiness." 

The End of the Road 

There was never a voice proclaimed the place, 

There was never a guard around it, ! 

Just a corner turned in the Lane of Life, j 

And, ere I could marvel, I found it — 
A wicket-gate in a moldering wall 

With a wild vine over it springing. 
And a cowled shape on the low stone seat 
By the wicket sitting and singing. 
Swart men of Arahy, Pilgrim and Paladin, i 

Join in the goodly array — 
Knights of Plantagenct, horsemen of Saladin — , 

All the world erozuding the ivay." 



38 THE ANTEROOM AN D OTHER POEMS 

In wonder I turned, and over the road 
I had trodden, a mist was stooping, 
And in it was thunder of viewless hoofs, 

Tumultuous myriads, trooping 
To that one portal : The ways of the world 

From afar and anear came to it, 
And the gatekeeper sang as, one by one, 
He ushered the travellers through it. 
" Hither rode Laimcelot, parted from Guinever — 
Princes and Beggarmen bold — 
Some like a Charlemagne, riding in miniver, 
Some in their gaberdines old." 

Then opened the gate, and lilies I saw 

In the cool grass, nodding and waving, 
A murmur of bees was borne on the breeze, 

A tinkle of rivulets laving 
Velvety banks where the riders reclined 
Asleep in the untroubled weather — 
The beggar and king, the sage and the knave, 
And the mother and child, together. 
"Light, light, ye gentlemen, cease from your wandering, 
Won is the ultimate quest. 
Sages from counseling, fools from your maundering, 
Rest ye well. Silence is best." 

But when I would enter, that keeper gray 

With a skeleton finger stayed me. 
" Not yet," he whispered — His finger was cold, 

And the look of his eye affrayed me — 
" 'Twas Fancy untimely showed thee the Gate, 

(She only the Future may borrow), 
Go, now; the feet of the galloping Hours 

Shall brinsf thee again — and to-morrow." 



BLUE GRASS 30 | 



Rest ye now soberly, striving is done for you. 

Finished the Chase and Flight — 
If ye were winners or losers is one for yon. 

Rode ye for Wrong or for Right." 

Blue Grass 

Not for men to reap or sow, 

It's as wild and wide as snow — 
Red men found it here untended 
With its seed-stalks all up-ended 
Lance-like, countless, plumed and splendid ; 

And that fairy soldier-show 
Still it keeps in sunny dingle 
Where the elm tree stands up single 

Sentry down the old fence-row — 
Still it holds its mimic muster 
Where the oak tree cronies cluster, 

And the sunlight winks down on it when the 
limbs swing to and fro. 

Nature's homespun this, for wear 

Changeless round the changing year ; 
Other vesture has she rarer, 
Roses for a day are fairer. 
Autumn woods awhile may share her 

Favor, yet is naught so dear 
As this tufted velvet sprangled. 
Knee-deep, crisply sweet, and spangled 

Thick with flawless dewdrops clear ; 
Drifting wintry snows may hide it. 
Drouth and parching winds betide it, 

But it keeps its dewy freshness though the 
world around is sere. 



40 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Blue they call it, but it's green, 

Touched with palest silver sheen — 
All things love it; sleek herds grazing. 
Red-wings o'er it anthems raising, 
Most of all, some fond eye gazing 

That has long in exile been. 
Even the steep it mantles, showing 
Subtler curves than waters flowing 

Down some giant ledge unseen, 
And from many a desert dreary 
Homesick hearts and eyes aweary 

Turn, as schoolboys turn to water, to the blue 
grass cool and clean. 



At the Grave of Poe 

Was there no green valley by Auber's tarn 

Or slope in the woods of Weir, 
No sepulchre dim in the cypress glade 
Where long ago lost Ulalume was laid, 

Awaiting her lover's bier — 
That they buried a prince of Poet's Land 

In a street-side graveyard drear — 
Was all that was left him of Poet's Land 

But a shrunken grass-plot sere? 



'Tis there in the noon men quivering feel 

The shattering car-wheel sound, 
And there in the night upon tense-strung ears 
The scintillant arc-light's glistering spears 



AT THE GRAVE OF POE 



4T 



Hiss into the darkness round, 
And never is peace till the pitying snows 

Heal over the aching ground — 
Till the sooth and silence of night-long snows 

Lie deep on the echoing ground. 

Do ye well, O People, to rate him dim 

In the firmaments of home, 
When over wide oceans he shines on high 
An unsetting star of the Western sky. 

Far up in the purple dome 
That glows with the " glory that once was Greece, 

And the grandeur that was Rome ? " 

Nay, your city is old and wide and fair. 

And many a column tall 
And figures of bronze with a laurelled name 
Shows the pledges proud ye have given to Fame, 

But the proudest of them all 
Is the square gray stone with its carven harp 

That stands by the old church wall — 
Is the name and face and the carven harp 

By the old Westminster wall. 




42 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Greatheart's Heaven 

Said Sir Greatheart to his Angel, " I can dig and cleave 
and hew, 

Build my navies, cities, kingdoms, as I will ; 
Yon dominion lost in Eden now is well-nigh won anew. 

And I hold the earth and sea my vassals still." 

" Yet thou whisp'rest me of heaven, with its music and its 
peace — 
What have these to do with men at clanging noon? 
Let the psalms be for the weary, for the beaten, battles 
cease, 
But for me thy summons cometh over soon." 

" With my works I praise my Maker, ships and bridges 
are my song, 
And for harps, a thousand thousand engines' beat, 
As I hang mine iron highways in the clouds the cliffs 
along. 
Or let in on bison-ranges seas of wheat." 

" Aye, and give me but To-morrow, and I'll shout back 
from the pole. 
One to-morrow, and I'll flaunt me high in air 
Till the eagle lags below me, and the thunder-wheels 
that roll 
Now but ruin, through the skies my ships shall bear." 

*' But what's left to venture yonder, in that finished world 
and fine, 
What's to win that still may challenge courage stern? 
Do they take their manhood with them who this leaping 
life resign? 
Heaven? Yes; but not at noon we thither turn." 



BEHIND THE SCENES 43 



And the Angel said, " At bed-time pleads the child 
among his blocks, 
'Wait a bit: I build a castle, tall and strong! ' 
Thou bridge-builder, whom the spider 'mid his flying 
cables mocks, 
Think not thy heaven is only rest and song." 

'' It is writ God's servants serve him, there as here. The 
morning star 
Waits a ruler who shall be of Adam's kind, 
And when Emmanuel rideth forth to Armageddon's 
war, 
Mightier powers than earth can muster march behind." 

Fear thou not. If doing please thee, there are deeds 
beyond the sun, 
High adventures that shall long outlast his light, 
And this truth shall settle in thee, ere thy heaven is well 
begun, 
That up there, and here, and always, Right is Might." 



Behind the Scenes 

"Begin now; the curtain is gone up," he said— 
'Twas the old drama, Life. In their places 

Ranged angels above me and devils below. 
And between them the comforting faces 

Of men — In cloud armies, the quick and the dead 
Leaning forth with eyes gleaming to mind me. 

And I saw, and saw not, as one in a dream. 
And again rose a whisper behind me, 



44 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



" Now, why dost thou linger ? " But I in amaze 

Cried aloud to the cloud-faces shining, 
" Where's God ? " And quick answer came, " Back 

there behind, 
With the book, all thy life for thee lining."' 

The Stream that Came to Town 

It was born far off in a shimmering pool, 

It was cradled in emerald meadows, 
And never a stain on its waters grew 
In all the green tangle it gurgled through, 

But the dapple of innocent shadows — 
Of a .bird or willow-bough, up in the blue, 
Or the cattle that came through the morning dew. 
And the slow-footed plow-teams, two by two. 

To drink — with their drinking shadows. 

Now its fetid waters flow 

Fat and slow. 
All its hanks a grimy wall, 
All its skies a smoky pall. 
Gone its sparkle, song, and all, 

Vanished long ago. 

It had not a thing of its own to hide, 

And the pools in the whispering rushes. 
The muskrats' door with their bubbles embossed, 
And ripples would tell it, if Reynard crossed 

To a frolic at dusk in the bushes — 
And the shyest of wood-spells, softlier tossed 
On the wimpling flood than a leaf in a frost, 

Was babbled in moonlit hushes. 



IN THE PASSAGE 45 



Who knozvs what dark secrets drozvn 

In these brown 
Waves that loll from bank to batik. 
Wallowing in a jellied tank, 
'Neath the windozvs, rank on rank, 

Dead eyes staring down? 

It felt the quick thrill of the life around — 

There was home-land, and every child growing 

In all the green valley, it knew by name. 

And never a step on the foot-bridge came, 
But the waters guessed where it was going, 

With a good-will as careless of outside fame 

As the morning stars are of the sluggard's blame, 
Or spring is, of war-news blowing. 

Not these strange scenes it desired, 
Not this huddled landscape spired — 
Country-born and crystal-pure, 
Dozvnzvard drawn by dread allure, 
Here it lies — a squalid sewer, 
In its ozvn filth mired. 



In the Passage 

" Mark you his look," they said, 
" How rapt, how fond ! Fair on him, still at sea, 
Foregleams the haven where he longs to be." 

Yet though aright they read 
His dying eyes, 'twas he alone that saw 
The wind-swept curtains down a silent flaw 

Slant toward the candle's head. 



46 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



And when his lips grown chill 
Half-shaped a whisper strange, they said, " He greets 
Celestial escorts now, and welcome meets 

This side the shining Hill " ; 
And he the while, far off along a lane 
Of dreams, went whistling home the cows again 

By meadows dusk and still. 

They thought in that hushed room 
Almost they heard the heavenly voices call 
As at the last he listened toward the wall ; 

But outside, in the bloom 
Of passing summer, in his passing ear 
The cricket-choir sang vespers quaint and clear. 

And early piped him home. 

Stoker 

In the darkness under the world, 
His roof is the coal-dust cloud o'erhead, 
And dust is the floor beneath him spread, 

And the mole in garden sod 
Knows more of the sweet daylight than he 
Who swings his shovel in bunker three, 

Or tugs at the furnace rod. 

Down deeper than engine purrs and swings, 
On the grimy under side of things. 

He leaps when the bugles blow 
And great guns thunder in sudden fight; 
And then, pent there in the choking night, 

Shifts the coal heaps to and fro. 



STOKER 47 



He hath visions of deeds 'twere good to do— 
Of a man's part cleanly played clean through 

Aloft in the open sun — 
But his to sweat by the furnace door, 
And reel at last to the reeling floor 

When his captain's fight is won. 

Other dreams come to him yet more dear — 
Of God's wide sky, and a sea glass-clear, 

And a salt wind, cool, cool, cool ! 
To him of the pit a breath divine 
That his shrivelled soul drinks in like wine. 

In a dream-draught rich and full. 

Small is his meed if the old flag win, 
And if it lose— then a louder din, 

A rent in the iron wall, 
And Death swirls in through the jagged gate, 
And the stoker finds in the hold his fate 

And coffin and grave and all. 

God keep thee, shipmate ; and some good day 
May He from heaven's bridge stoop and say, 

" O man by the doors of hell, 
Come up ! For the stifling toil is past. 
And the good ship rides in port at last ; 

All's over and all is well ; 
Come up to the deck of the world ! " 



THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Path to the Spring 

The stepping-stones led out. 
An ancient line well-worn in years of yore, 
And winding onward from the old yard door, 

Each stone with grass about, 
Like a gray isle in silent seas of green, 
Passed the quaint summer-house, the chosen scene 

Of rest from romp and rout. 
And old, slow-flowing tales uncankered yet by doubt. 

Then came the swinging gate, 
Opening on meadows dim, horizon wide 
To our young eyes, where on the further side 

Did hills more wondrous wait 
Than e'er kissed heaven in Arcady. Alack ! 
The path turned there, and now no other track 

In these gray days and late 
Finds the lost lands of old the sky-line of our fate. 

A big hackberry spread 
High o'er the path, still to one loyal mind 
And memory keen, lone monarch of his kind ; 

And then, with creeping dread 
To childish hearts, the cavern in the hill, 
Lair of we knew not what, gaped on us still, 

As oft with hurrying tread 
And fearful backward look along the path we sped. 



TO A YOUNG HOSPITAL NURSE 



49 



To tumble round the turn, 
And lo ! the spring. Then while Aunt Lucy, bent 
Above her wash-tubs, scolding welcome lent. 

Slim Chloe left her churn, 
And smiling wide, to young lips round the pool 
The brown gourd tilted dripping, pure, and cool- 
Such draft not Hebe's urn 
Could yield, nor Dian's thirst so innocently burn. 

But far, and far apart 
We've journeyed since. Some walk the streets of gold. 
And some, still further from the paths of old. 

Plod on with patient heart; 
All things they see in one vast circle bound. 
And life, mayhap, shall some time circle round. 

Somewhere some new dawn dart 
New day, new life, and they down some new spring-path 
start. 



To a Young Hospital Nurse 

What witcher}^ is here? — 
You with the happy eyes, and fawn's footfall 
That frolics still, forgetful, down the hall— - 

Did unkind fortune drear 
Lure you to this grim house of helplessness? 
Or you your May-bloom prentice to distress, 

O morning vision dear? 



50 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



One altar, one alone. 
May claim such sacrifice ; if Duty call. 
Obey — that still small Voice leads stars, and all — 

But not Golconda's zone, 
Nor all Fame trumpets of, or Fancy paints, 
Can buy lost youth — that dream the wistful saints 

Remember on the throne. 

Here is no filial care 
That love or kinship owes : not even a friend 
Lifts you his weary eyes as now you bend — 

You whose rebellious hair. 
New-coiled above the white nape, woman-wise, 
Back into girlhood's floating tresses flies 

At even a touch of air. 

Is there no older hand, 
No heart long tutored of its own dull grief. 
To soothe another's woes, and win relief? 

O child, the Promised Land 
You tread unknowing, all too soon is gone — 
Twilight comes twice, but once — but once ! — the dawn 

Reddens Youth's golden strand. 

Then seize the budding chance 
While shimmering spider-wheels still wear the dew, 
And joy's a-leap, and all the world is new; 

'Tis Heaven makes young Romance 
Life's blossom-time, and never drouth nor frost 
Falls on the flowers but means some harvest lost — 

Go, little maid, go dance ! 



THE TRACK-WALKER 51 



The Track-Walker 

With head bent low and shoulders stooped, 

And slow, home-keeping eye 
Fixed on the rails, a silent shape, 

The track-walker goes by. 

A five-mile strip of grimy stones, 

Edged with an iron band. 
Is all his world. June snows that drift 

In daisies o'er the land 

He heeds not, nor red autumn flakes 

That rustle down the air — 
Rail, bolt, and bar to keep in place — 

This is his only care. 

He quits his task three steps before 
The rocking train shoots past, 

Then stoops, while still the pebbles whirl, 
To make a loose bolt fast. 

The ruin hid in sudden flood. 

Slow rust and silent frost 
'Tis his to fend ; and men ride by 

In cushioned ease, at cost 

Of his long march and lonely watch. 

Nor give a backward thought 
To the bent shape and plodding feet 

Whose toil their safety bought. 

Morn is to him a sentry beat 
To thread through sun and rain. 

His noon a place to turn and start 
Back into night again. 



52 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 

A ceaseless traveller all his days, 

New lands he ne'er may roam — 
In yonder orchard is his house, 

Here 'twixt the rails, his home. 

Unmourned, unmissed, he dies to find 

(The last lone miles all trod) 
That whoso walks a railway track 

Aright — has walked with God. 

In the Colorado Canon 

Altair is white, and Betelguese is gold, 

Men say, and vast ! though but to sage's eye ; 
But this red gulf that gapes to either sky 

Would whelm half heaven ; and down these slopes, of old 

God digged his sunsets, and still on their bold 
Ramparts, waste-heaps of night and morning lie. 
Purpled and pearled and tinct in every dye 

With which Auroras mock at Artie cold. 

Potter ! Who shapest thus with glory's hand 
The desert clay, thou kindlest in my heart 
Wild dreams — too thrilling sweet aught else to be ! — 

I, whom thou gavest to feel, to understand, 

And be, in some far fashion, what thou art — 
I too am clay — what wilt thou make of me? 




THE MAUSER BULLETS SONG 



53 



The Mauser Bullet's Song 

Ghost of dead winds am I, 

A sigh, a wailing. 
Wraith of a lullaby 
In sultry noons through Cuban jungles blown 
Where the swart Spaniard fiercely holds his own— 

I am the trailing 
Whisper that moans o'er Modder's reefs of sand 
When Cronje's troopers make their dauntless stand, 
All unavailing. 

Out of the dark of trees 

Far away lying, 
Swifter than homing bees 
Come I, last minstrel of the foughten field, 
With magic song, of meaning unrevealed. 

New joys implying: 
Sirens of old lured sailors o'er the main. 
And siren I along Tugela's plain 
Whistle the dying. 

Mine is a spell ye own — 
Though far behind you 
With childish days have flown 
The low-toned sanctities of cradle-tune, 
In me again old vesper voices croon, 

Old echoes mind you 
Of vanished lips that soothed your fears away — 
Soldier, whose lips the last " good night ! " shall say 
When I shall find you? 



54 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Who knows? Thin, thin, and keen 

As a star's chanting, 
Thrid I the battle scene — 
Mayhap, a canticle of heavenly breath. 
Mayhap, forerunner of soft-footed Death, 

That whispers, panting, 
Of new worlds waiting with a welcome dear, 
But in the message hides a touch of fear. 
Forever haunting. 

The Song of the Grass 

{In the Soldiers' Cemetery at Arlington) 

Ye are many, ye are mighty, and j^our feet they trample 
hard — 
Ye have trod the mountains under, and the sea. 
The sea ye, too, have conquered, but within this quiet 
yard 
It is I, the grass, am master; hark to me. 

Ye have torn me in your marches, scarred me deep with 
hoof and heel, 
And my dewy sward have rolled in dust and blood. 
When amid the cannon-thunder e'en the forest seemed 
to reel, 
And your battle shook the hillside where ye stood. 

Were ye victors? 'Twas not Carthage won by Trasimene's 
lake, 
Nor the Britons 'mid the wheat at Waterloo, 
For my creeping, crowding legions from them both the 
field did take. 
As I took the heights at Gettysburgh from you. 



THE SONG OF THE GRASS 



55 



But I hate the battle fury as I hate the crawling sea. 
With its wrinkled swinging tides that cannot cease ; 

Sweeter far to me the woodland where the dappled 
shadows be, 
Or the graveyard with its lilies and its peace. 

Nay, I will be done with mocking. O my masters, naught 
am I 

But the clinging lowly grass about your feet. 
Growing green and cool around you, tired eyes to satisfy. 

And weaving, when all's done, your winding-sheet. 

Sleep ye well ! Men bring you roses, but they wither in the 
sun — • 
Bring them in the May with music and a sound, 
As of old, of timed footsteps ; but when all the pomp is 
done. 
In the stillness 'tis my small roots wrap you round, 

Fold you close, and so will keep you till Potomac shall 
run dry. 
And the stars go out like camp fires in the skies. 
Till the shivering sea shall perish, and the huddling 
mountains fly. 
And the judgment bugle blowing bids you rise. 




56 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



At Emmaus 

They did not know Him as they walked, 
Their eyes were holden while they talked, 
But when at home He brake the bread, 
" It is the Lord ! " they quickly said. 

Wouldst thou know Christ? Make Him thy guest- 
His heart-stone manner shows Him best. 



Apollo's Song 

(See also in "A Dream of Gods") 

Not on the earth he stood, but lifted up 
High on a changeful cloud, now tinct with dawn, 
Now gray as starless night on dreaming snows. 
And if the cloud turned, or the god alone 
Turned in his song, I know not, but methought 
All the world-throng beheld him face to face. 

Low breathed the deep beginning. None might say 
Where Silence dipped her coasts in Song's sweet seas, 
Or when we launched thereon. At once afloat 
We found us, and to float on that full tide 
Was bliss unknown. Nay, if Elysium lay 
Beyond such seas, the great souls thither bound 
Would loiter school-boy like along the way. 
All senses now were swallowed up in one, 
All thought, all feeling, aye, the soul itself 
Sat in the ear; as when some city's throng 
Stall, hall, and home, and market-place forsake 
And joyful crowd the gates to crown their king, 



APOLLO'S SONG 57 



Crowned in their hearts already. If the spell 
Lay on us for an hour, or hour of years, 
None knew ; but all too soon the tuneful flood 
Caressed us homeward, and our spirits touched 
Once more the gray coasts of Reality. 

So sang the god and ceased — or would have ceased 
But for a passionate cry, born of a heart 
Insatiate. " Lo, thy songs" (so rang the cry) 
" Be all of heaven. Sing us, O God, the songs 
Of men." 

An instant then Apollo paused, 
Laid down his lyre, his lissom fingers clasped 
Behind him, and, a simple-hearted youth 
Supreme in beauty, lifted up his voice 
Again. 

He sang of Youth and June ; green fields 
And dancing feet and velvet orchard floors 
Pink with perfumed snows ; of bees and birds 
And the shy tinkle of too-happy brooks 
Wimpling among the roses. Then young Love 
Moved through the music, and with him first came 
The troubled note that, like the sombre lines 
In imaged light, runs through all mortal joy. 
Not this the sounding chant Olympus knew. 
Nor a god singing; earthly bliss and grief 
Mixed in these chords, an aching bliss, a grief 
Dearer than half our joys. All human life 
Flowed through the melody, and evermore 
Echoing sighs ; until at last the god 
Leaving the palpable, in haunting strains 
Too keen, too thrilling sweet for homesick hearts 
To exile doomed, 'gan breathe of unsung hopes 
And deep, unutterable dreams that are 



58 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The soul's blind fumbling at the breast of Fate 

Here in Time's darkness. Then with sound of tears 

Like the night rain in desolate Autumn woods 

A broken cry went up, " Forbear, O God, 

Forbear, lest thou shouldest slay us with thy song." 

Backgrounds 

"The play, the play's the thing!" Lord Hamlet, no. 

The peopled and illimitable night 

Hath mightier ghosts than Denmark's, and the light 
That limns the upturned face of Romeo 
Paints half a world of faces in its glow ; 

Arden hath untold lovers hid from sight 

To Rosalind, and many a willing sprite 
Unknown, unsummoned, waits on Prospero. 
What else is watching in the dark behind? 

Who knows when legions, angel, ghost, or djinn. 
Shall break from out the backgrounds vast that bind 

Our cramped horizon, and o'errun the scene. 
Or God himself crash on us mummers blind. 

And play be done, and life, life, life, begin ! 

Bethel-on-the-Hill 

The naked walls no arches know. 

No rich mosaic's pride. 
But only time-stained moss without. 

And light unstained inside ; 
No marble niches high o'erhead 

Lift haloed saints to view. 
But watch you well yon face ; for here 

The saints sit in the pew. 



BETHEL-ON-THE-HILL 59 



The men of old who chose the spot 

Where these gray gables rise, 
Had little thought what changes here 

Would snare their children's eyes. 
Yon outward sweep of vale and mount 

Of old no glances drew — 
The forest then possessed the land, 

And hid the world from view. 

But now like some rich tapestry 

The summer slopes are spread, 
Broidered in rustling green and gold 

And looped with silver thread 
That twinkles 'twixt the willow trees, 

And hums a Sunday tune. 
And Bob White, three wheat fields away, 

Helps praise the Lord for June. 

Were there no windows toward the west, 

'Twere easier here to pray, 
For look ! See yonder fleet of clouds 

Sail grandly up this way. 
They move like ships in ports of home. 

Beyond all fear of harm. 
While far below their shadows glide 

As big as half a farm. 

" I lift mine eyes," the people sing — • 

Amen ! I do ; and straight 
New wonders on the mountain grow, 

A towering cliff, a gate, 
Of carven snow — -mayhap of pearl! 

Alas ! in other evens 
I've seen it fade, or I might dream 

That gleaming gate was heaven's. 



6o THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



What if these walls no arches know, 

No pictured windows wide, 
But only God's June world without, 

And praying saints inside? 
To this old hill, from altars thronged 

And loneliest desert track, 
The hearts that once have worshipped here 

With fondest thoughts look back. 

The world has many a road to God — 

No lands where lost men roam 
Lie so remote, so desolate, 

But that there's some way home ; 
Yet some bright coasts on highways lie. 

As free, as plain as day. 
And Bethel stands by such a road, 

And far, far on the way. 

Voyagers 

I bade two friends of mine farewell to-day. 

One sailed at noon; and while the shores around 

Echoed reverberant with mingled sound, 
Voices and bells and iron-throated bray 
Of enginery, the great ship moved away. 

And less'ning outward, passed our vision's bound. 

Then while her trail yet stained the skies, I found 
A chamber where a wan-faced pilgrim lay. 

Bound home. No voices stirred the tranquil air ; 
In silence loosed he from this alien sod, 

And, smiling backward, forth alone did fare. 
Yea, while we watched, Death's waiting decks had trod, 

Sighed twice, and, ere we knew him gone, was there- 
So near is Heaven, so short the road to God. 



THE DREAMER 6i 



The Dreamer i 

" Come down ! " we cried to him. " Leave off thy lonely ', 

Watch on the mountain height ; ] 

Belike the foeman comes, and wilt thou only : 

Be missing from the fight?" ' 

■i 
J 

No word he answered, yet we knew when ended \ 

The long day's doubtful war 
We had not won had' he left undefended 

His lone outpost afar. ' 

" Come down ! " we cried again. " Our streams are failing. 

What dost thou 'mid the stones 

On the bare hillside? Hear the children wailing! \ 

With thirst the whole earth groans." , 

i 

" Drink, then ! " he laughed to us, and rested glowing 1 

Beside his well-used tools, I 

And down the rocks unprisoned fountains flowing J 

Sang into sudden pools. j 

J 

Light, light of heart we deemed him, and" a stranger \ 

To great, soul-shaping cares, j 

Grief schooled him vainly, and he fronted danger ■ 

With songs instead of prayers. 

He was not one of us. His rapt eyes, shining i 

Like moonlight veiled in showers, 
Had the seer's vision, outward far divining 

Horizons beyond ours. 



62 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



We heard the waves break, he, small waters welling 

In darkness 'neath the sod, 
And what to us was but the night-wind swelling 

He called the voice of God. 

And oft when Sorrow sighed, or we in watches 
Of Fear's long night our wrongs 

Told in the dark, he 'wildered us with snatches 
Of strange and haunting songs, 

Our souls enthralling with a potence under 

The music's ebb and flow, 
Like far-blown echoes of the trumpet-thunder 

That stormed walled Jericho. 

But now a silence falls, and we awaken — 

Dim is our dawn, and late ! 
The prophet-voice we thought a reed wind-shaken 

Hath passed within the gate. 

And our dull hearts now read aright the story 

Our dreamer always knew — 
Life's best is dreaming best, and heaven's own glory, 

Man's dreams and God's come true. 

Homesick 

Like mushrooms huddled close, the roofs 

Lean o'er the narrow street. 
Where loose-clad, swarthy throngs go by 

With click of sandaled feet; 
A bullock cart here scrapes the wall. 

And there a palanquin 
Goes bobbing by with lacquered sides 

That hide a mandarin. 



HOMESICK 6z 



All day I've jostled 'mid the crowd, 
All day mine ears have heard 

Babble of trade and mirth and hate, 
And not one homelike word — 

They look, they laugh, like humankind- 
Here, too. are night and day, 

Labor and love and life and joy — 
But home's a world away I 

What useless wares the pedlers cry. 

What uncouth dainties rare 
I see, and nameless, painted fruits 

No other clime may share ; 
But oh ! A winesap, rich and ripe, 

From far Virginian trees — 
What like it ever grew by all 

These alien Eastern seas ? 

The winds of unknown odors breathe — 

Strange craft are on the stream; 
I turn a wistful, doubting eye 

Even on the ruddy gleam 
The sunset wastes on dusky junks 

And slant, outlandish sails — 
Is this the gold the dying day 

Pours on my native vales ? 

O ye who strain with leaping heart 

Along the outward track, 
God speed'! But deeper, keener joy 

Is his who turns him back ! 
What sun soe'er may shine aljove. 

What stars or cast or west, 
The last low lights that guide us home 

Outdazzle all the rest. 



64 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Poets' Land 

If it lie east of day, 
Or west of utmost Hesper, who may know? 
No buttressed highways past its borders go, 
Nor smoke, nor foam-wakes trailing seaward, show 

In any wind or weather. 

How men come thither, 
Nor sorcerer's red-writ chart enchanted hints the way. 

But if its viewless portals 
No foot may find, nor courage win the gate, 

And for unguided mortals 
Its phantom festivals inviolate 

Fall on a timeless date. 
Still is there solace^ — winged Fancy hath 
Her olden power, and keeps the magic key — 
Lo ! at her touch, an open door, a path, 

And straight 'tis Arcady ! 

Ancient its empery, and many a name. 

Itself a song, resounds its varied fame 

In countless tongues of old worlds and the new — 

Eden. Elysium, and Hesperides, 

Tatarian Xanadu, 
And isled Atlantis in her sundown seas : 

And other names than these 

It claims, and classic zones 
Murmuring of caves with Sibyl-voices ringing 
And pensive Vestals at dim altars singing 

Portents, in tones 
Half-syllabled, fantastical as dreams, — 
And Delphic groves whose haunted branches swinging 

Twinkle the noonday's beams. 



POETS' LAND 65 



There Lady Cristabel, 
Watched of all lovers, thrids the midnight wood 
With keen, delicious pricklings in the blood 

That elfin perils spell : 

Childe Roland to his tower 
In Poets' Land, comes at the destined hour, 
And pilgrims thither, deep in bosky vale 

Pausing, with eyes that glisten, 

To Sorrow's Vespers listen. 
As in the glade young Keats's nightingale 
Anigh wakes angels' envy : wars are not. 

And all old ills forgot 

In Avalon, 
And there King Arthur mourns nor queen nor throne, 

Nor his Round Table gone, 
Nor far-blown joustings once at castled Camelot ; 
But happy Tempests still on Prosper's isle 

Maroon the Race of Man, 
Wondering and doubting which may best beguile 
Men's cares — Miranda's beauty, Ariel's wile. 

Or moon-calf Caliban. 

These regions builded 
High Lords of Song: even as the first World-maker 

With his sole word, the world 
Fashioned and lit, that may no more betake her 
To rayless Chaos, nor, unbid, forsake her 

Star-candled circle whirled. 

So, what God's will did, 



66 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Poets essay; with song empeople space, 
And star infinity with brain-born Things 
That bulk and move majestical as kings, 

Till earthlier kings give place, 
And Fancy's heirs alone immortal bide : 

Yea, many a prince 
Is throned and gone and nigh forgotten, since 
The world crowned Hamlet; and what griefs beside, 

In all the storied tide 
Of royal woes in past or passing years, 
Seem to us half so deep as maundering old 

King Lear's? 

Not all for Poets' Land, 
Nor for the mighty Shapes and Shades that dwell 
Far down its charmed gardens, flows the song: 

Chieflier to those belong 
The glory, who have framed with Music's spell 
These ageless regions, and their hero band : . 
For when did honey-tongued Aeneas bleed. 

Or what with Dido plead, 
Other than Vergil bade? And Abdiel, 
Aye, and the greatest of great angels, each 

Speaks but Miltonian speech, 
As Dante's art unlocks or Heaven or Hell ; 

And though each puppet crowned 
In Shakspere's pageantry, straightway discloses 
A royal mood, and wears his dignity 

Kingly as any he 
Of antique ancestry and reign renowned. 

Yet one great hand disposes 
Caesar and knave and clown, coffin and throne — 

And Shakspere rules alone. 



IN THE NEW CONGRESSIONAL LIBRARY 67 



O Earth, O little Earth! 
Unnoticed atomy 'mid giant stars, 

Gather to thee thy voice, 
Yea, bid thy whirlwinds muster, and rejoice 

Till th}^ far-rolling mirth 
Beats thunderous music on Time's outmost bars ; 
Hide not thy head for any suns that be, 

For Heaven hath shared with thee 
Its princeling, Man, sprung of the common sod, 

Yet instinct with the skies! 

Whose poet's eyes, 
Dim with the anguish of all mortal years. 
And poet's heart that aches with griefs and fears. 

Celestial enterprise 
Invites and dares, till paths th' Eternal trod. 

His heir, in wilful wise 

Childlike and Godlike, tries — 
Stumbling, but following, following his great 

Father, God. 



In the New Congressional Library 

He trod the Hall of Captains ; o'er him high 
Were shining names ; the Macedonian bold, 
Rome's mightiest, mightier he of Carthage old. 

And later lights new-risen in War's wild sky 

Dazzled upon him. Long with wistful eye 
The soldier sought a name nowhere enrolled 
On those bright walls ; but after, in the cold 

Capitol wandering, came by chance anigh 



68 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



A western window — there Potomac lay 
Rimmed with Virginian hills, and in the sun 

Far off, a pillared mansion ; then the gray, 
Worn warrior straight uncovered, and his one 

Unwounded arm went up the old, old way 
For his lost Captain — Lee of Arlington. 

The Puritan 

Of soul severe and mien austere and sour. 
In blunt disdain, he leaves to fops and girls 
Life's gentler arts, misranked with scents and curls 

But when some doom-bell booms the fateful hour, 

Strides to the front, untaught to budge or cower. 
And Hampden's speech in Freedom's onset whirls, 
While Cromwell's arm a throne to ruin hurls 

And guides a realm unkinged with kingly power. 

And hark yon voice ! Milton, ye say, and blind ? 
Then let the loneliest Lords of Song give place. 
And hail, whom all lords hail. The Puritan — 

Stern tribe that throne the right above the kind. 

And, building altars to Jehovah's face 

In new worlds wide, rebuilt the name of Man. 

" How They Grow " 

Mark well yon slender stalk of green 
Just springing forth the clods between 

While April airs are chilly ; 
With filmy leaflets closely curled. 
It looks a tiny banner furled. 

But soon will be a lily. 



" HO W THE Y GROW " 69 



A sparrow's weight would bend it low, 
A little flood would overflow, 

A little frost would' kill it; 
And e'en when grown it reaches up 
And lifts to heaven a heavenly cup, 

A little dew would fill it. 

Yet all the power that Newton saw 
Bind in one vast and equal law 

Pebble and planet glowing 
Cannot, when Spring is come, keep hid 
The lily 'neath its coverlid. 

Nor stay its buds from blowing. 

It knows no labor but to bloom — ■ 
God's darling need no cares assume, 

No tribute pay but beauty; 
It cannot but live in the light, 
And still to keep its garments white 

Is nature more than duty. 

What if to-morrow it must die? 
Is there no Easter in the sky 

To earth's dead blossoms given? 
Yon world would forfeit half its bliss 
If what is sweetest here in this 

Brief springtime had no heaven. 

" Much more, O ye of little faith ! "— 
(This is the word the Master saith) 

" Much more to you His will is ! " 
— Nay, but it were enough for me 
Could I, O Master ! only be 

To Thee as are thy lilies. 



570 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



When Amy Went 

When Amy went to London, 

I mind me still the bells, 
The shouts and cries, and tearful eyes, 

Swift feet, and short farewells 
Around us 'neath the station roof 

With long trains rolling slow — 
When Amy went to London 

One little year ago. 

There were a dozen coaches — 

They say there was an earl 
Went lolling down to London town 

With our shy Devon girl ; 
It was the fairest time o' year, 

When maids and roses blow — 
And Amy went to London 

Li June a year ago. 

She's gone again from Devon — 

But hushed were all the bells. 
No shouting throng nor clanging gong 

Broke on our last farewells; 
A single sound was in the room, 

A weeping long and low — 
When winsome Amy left us 

At dawn a week ago. 



THE DANDELION 71 



And still it's June with roses 

Abloom, and still the world 
Rolls up and down to London town 

On clanging journeys whirled; 
But that last silent parting 

Has left us endless woe — 
And Amy went to heaven 

A long, long time ago. 



The Dandelion 

Unnamed among the garden walls. 

Unknown in Beauty's bower, 
It blooms, and cares not which it be, 

Bright weed or homely flower ; 
Yet brave as any red-cross knight, 

And modest as a lass is. 
It might be Jeanne d'Arc of buds. 

Or Galahad of grasses. 

The rose for it no envy knows. 

The lily feels no pity; 
Unminded in the meadows green. 

Undaunted in the city, 
It blazes in the skirts of Spring 

With grass-blades round it twining. 
As if a sun-beam should take root 

And bloom instead of shining. 



72 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



And when its little day is done, 

On rounded column slender. 
Triumphant rises in its place 

A silvery, silken splendor, 
A wondrous, wavering, winged thing. 

Free the free winds to fly on — 
It is the flower's immortal part, 

Soul of the dandelion. 



The Frogs in April 

Not for the world's delight 

In the wet April night 
Ye lift your litanies, O tuneless choir, 

To one high note and shrill 

Piping your own wild will, 
From your dark lodgings in the moss and mire. 

No poet-voices praise 

The ringing notes ye raise ; 
Nay, Chanticleer himself doth sweetlier sound 

His farmyard trumpet clear 

When first the dawn is near. 
And gaping milkmaids make their morning round. 

Yet never golden bell 

Did gladder tidings tell 
On the still night-air o'er a moon-lit town 

Than is the tale ye bring, 

O prophets of the spring, 
Chirping of April 'mid the meadows brown. 



THE FROGS IN APRIL 



72, 



Your artless anthems range 

Along the stops of change — 
"The snows are gone," ye pipe, "and blue-birds come. 

Time's at the dewy turn 

When dandelions burn. 
And in yon bare boughs soon the bees will hum." 

Pipe, then, your vernal theme, 

Pipe on, though fond eyes gleam 
'Mid your keen chorals through a mist of tears, 

For with your notes come back 

Old things we love, but lack, 
And dear dead faces out of vanished years. 

Aye, but to hear ye hymn 

Once more in meadows dim, 
God's saints mayhap, shall cease from heavenly mirth, 

And listen on the wall 

With longing looks let fall. 
And sighing. say, " 'Tis spring on our old earth.'' 




74 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Motorman 

Swathed to the eyes, with armored hands 

That may not lose their hold 
On the steel reins that guide his car, 

For all the stinging cold, 
'Mid griding wheels and trampling feet 

And harsh gongs clanging near, 
On his own road unswerving drives 

Our modern charioteer. 

The nameless he of old who drove 

Afield with Diomed, 
Or side by side with Caesar's self 

Some Roman Triumph led, 
No stouter heart nor manlier task 

Could boast, than he must own 
With whom the busy world today 

Goes riding up and down. 

Not his in wastes of rolling foam 

To choose his vagrant way, 
Nor yet to thunder through the land 

Still westward day by day. 
But in his glass pen, six by three. 

To thread one narrow street 
Through day and night and months and years, 

And then — the trip repeat. 



THE MOTORMAN 75 



He turns the crank and starts, and stops, 

And starts, the whole day long — 
But let those hands that turn alway 

Once turn that handle wrong, 
And heaped-up ruin clogs the street, 

And mayhap careless men 
Who rode but now close at his back 

Will never ride again. 

He sees the smiling folk that throng 

The play-house portals wide, 
Or old' Saint x\ndrews' ivied porch, 

And passes by — outside; 
And rattling down the creaking rails, 

He stamps his aching feet. 
And in his weary soul half hopes 

His heaven may have no street. 

Ride on, O man unnamed, unknown ! 

No hero deeds design; 
Still heed the gong, and ceaseless watch 

All down the crowded line. 
Till One who marks the humble worth, 

Unsung, unnoticed here, 
Shall say, " The Lord hath need of thee, 

Run in, O charioteer ! " 



76 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The River Road 

'Twas the road we went to school 

Down a pathway dim and cool 
Winding with the winding waters through the land of Long 
Ago, 

And though far my feet may stray 

From the regions where it lay, 
Still I see its bosky mazes, and I hear the waters flow. 

Sometimes, in our childish view, 

That green road was river, too ; 
In our fancy we could hear it ripple down a stony hill. 

And the curves that sidled round 

Some great tree trunk on the ground 
Were to us the pools and eddies where the stream lay deep 
and still. 

There were beeches gray and old. 
Carved with sprawling letters bold — 
There the dogwood bush in blossom seemed a maid in 
bridal plumes, 

And the gossip winds that sighed 
Through the tangled thickets wide 
Breathed of pawpaws up the hollows, or the wild grape's 
scented blooms. 

On that road no trumpets blared 
While a prince to crowning fared 
With the plumed and spangled pageantry of kingdoms in 
his train, 

But the rain-crow's troubled note 
There in August noons would float. 
As we watched the trampling legions of the silver-footed 
rain. 



THE RIVER ROAD 



77 



Woodfolk, too, in gray and brown, 
That dim way went up and down ; 
There the raccoon on the fence-rails ambled off at our 
halloo. 

Foxes barked in moonlit night, 
And the young hares in our sight 
Played at hide-and-seek with shadows in the twilight and 
the dew. 

Some good day I'm going back 
Up that unforgotten track ; 
I shall come, or they will bring me, round the bend at set 
of sun — 

There's a gate will let me through. 
As of old it used to do. 
And the river road will bring me home when all my 
travel's done. 







78 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



When the Door Opens 

Sometimes it's early, early — 

Or ever the farmhouse lires 
Send up their incense pearly 
In wavering morning spires, 
When the sheep in nooks of the meadows 

Are lying still, 
And the old wheel dreams in the shadows 
Behind the mill, 
Then in the hush of the dawning, in the silvery mists and 

the dew, 
God opens the door a little way, and little feet go through. 

Sometimes it's when the wonder, 

The hush and the dews have fled. 
And noontide life pants under 
The glare of the noon o'erhead, 
When the plowman's furrows are creeping 

Over the land, 
Or rises the whir of the reaping 
On every hand — 
Or ever the swath is finished, or the long brown furrow 

is run, 
The unseen door swings open wide, and the strong man's 
work is done. 



THE RED WINGED STARLING 79 



Sometimes when the lamps of heaven 
And the homeher lights of earth 
Burn dim in the lonely even, 
On high, or heside the hearth, 
When the children go, and the cheery- 
Good nights are said, 
And naught's hy the lire but a weary 
And bowing head — 
Then opens the door where all roads end, or run they east 

or west. 
And child and man and a child again go in and are at 
rest. 

The Red Winged Starling 

He haunts no forest dim — 

Hedgerows are not for him, 
Nor upland wolds that hear the plovers call. 

But where dank meadows dream 

Ribboned with many a stream, 
'Mid swinging grasses swings his grass-built hall. 

Tall elders o'er it spread 

Their clusters wide, wincred. 
Of berries small, and water-lilies rest 

Their chins upon their leaves 

To watch him as he weaves 
The slender blades that stay his rocking nest. 

The muskrats' highways go 

Beneath his portico; 
His brooding dame may still her chamber keep. 

And mark with quiet eye 

The marsh-hen's chicks go by. 
Or field-mice dance in grassy jungles deep, 
6 



8o THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



What if wild things are told 

Of redwing bands of old? 
Little we heed the far-ofif, plaintive tale 

When in his ecstasy 

His epaulets and he 
Flash their June roundelays along the vale. 

For that far-fluted tune 

Through the ripe afternoon 
Has in it hauntings of a wondrous sooth, 

And with diviner powers 

Than builded Ilion's towers 
Rebuilds the kingdoms of long-vanished youth. 

Headache Day 

Oh, for the Orient archways, 

The curtained tents of Shem, 
Or even the Eskimo dugouts, 

With tunnels down to them — 
Oh. for a home with Robin 

— Redbreast, or Hood — on floors 
Of forests dim where ne'er is heard 

The crash of swinging doors ! 

Here on this burning pillow, 

Where lacing wrinkles feel. 
Beneath a throbbing, helpless head. 

Like fretwork of hot steel, 
Where one thin shaft of sunlight 

Pierces the darkness dim, 
And shows me how, if I but move, 

The sick walls reel and swim. 



HEADACHE DAY 8t 

I've learned my lesson duly, 

I know each different clang 
With which the down-stairs doors go shut — 

Each brings a different pang. 
Now, listen! Hear those footsteps? 

That's little Joe once more 
Darting across the sitting-room — 

Boom ! That's the back hall door ! 

I dreamt a dream this morning — 

The Oregon, outside 
My window cruising, as I thought, 

Let loose a full broadside ; 
Groaning I woke, and quickly 

Knew what my dreaming meant — 
That boy was steaming through the house 

And firing as he went. 

It helps me not to murmur. 

Or clench my hands in pain — 
Who would have little folks go out 

And not come in again? — 
And yet how vain the war talk 

Of ship and twelve-inch gun. 
To him who lives where doors will slam — 

And has an eight years' son ! 

Oh, for the storied stillness 

Of white Alhambran halls, 
A bamboo lodge in quaint Japan 

With wattled screens for walls — 
Oh, for a quiet dwelling 

On any earthly shores 
Where men no more have headache days, 

Or houses have no doors ! 



82 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Sawmill 

No huge, dim wheels in silent majesty 

Like a world turning, 
No massive walls, no chimneys in the sky 

Smoking and burning, 
Only a rough shed in the lonely wood, 

An engine creaking, 
And yon fanged terror through the solitude 
All day long shrieking — 

That's the sawmill, whirling, shearing, 
In its flashing anger tearing 
Gnarled old trunks apart ; 
Woodland annals, oaken, tender. 
Scrolled in long-grown circles slender 
All these nameless years, must render 
Now their inmost heart. 

Balsamic odors rise along the air — 

A sweet-gum mellow 
Bleeds on the saw, and breathes a perfume rare 

The oak, his fellow 
In like misfortune, not such kindness shows. 

Though the steel wheeling- 
Through his warm heart, a little warmer grows 
With kindred feeling. 

Sodden heaps of sawdust cumber, 
Leaning piles of rawest lumber 

Zigzag o'er the ground; 
Still the blade goes shaping, swording 
Into use the woodland's hoarding. 
Girder, scantling, beam and boarding. 
Four-square, straight and sound. 



THE SAWMILL 83 



What dreams were done when these great hearts 
were still ! 

Winds that would wrestle 
With the lone pine all night on yonder hill. 

Some outland vessel 
Feigned to his hopes, himself her tallest mast, 

Dragon-wings wearing. 
And driving onward down strange waters, past 
Wild isles of daring. 

Dream is done and voyage over. 
Here lies low the would-be rover 

In the trampled yard; 
All his waves are waste-heaps dusty, 
All his ship, the log-car rusty, 
And from his wild islands must he 
Evermore be barred. 

Not all is lost : these trunks down loftier aisles 

Shall reassemble. 
Where the old sunlight on them richlier smiles, 

And pipes that tremble 
With wild-wood memories, haunted stops shall blow 

Till bees are humming 
High in the treetops, and white clusters grow, 
And June is coming. 

But the sunset whistle's blowing, 
And yon fateful wheel is slowing, 

Slowing — slowing — still. 
Come away; let Silence mend her 
Raveled woof, and Darkness lend her 
Healing here, till Dian bend her 
Young bow o'er the hill. 



THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Tybee's Bell 

The curtained moon far down a lane 

Of cloudy walls uneven 
Gleamed like a transom light above 

A dark side door in heaven 
As in we swung on Tybee Bar, 

A faint swell with us bringing, 
And heard the one slow, dreaming stroke 

Of Tybee buoy bell ringing. 

'Twas our own wake that rang the bell- 
Not now a clanging warning, 

But sweet as village chimes across 
Blown June and Sabbath morning, 

And yet the sadness of the sea. 
The dark, the wan mists rolling, 

Stole on our hearts, in that one note 
Along the twilight tolling. 

We thought all angry coasts were by — 

Grim Hatteras was behind us, 
And naught in Tybee's tawny floods 

Found we of ill to mind us. 
What ailed the bell? Did ancient use 

So well its message master 
That even the babble of its dreams 

Could only ring disaster? 

Ah, not alone for pilgrim ships 
That tone of haunting sorrow, 

But for bright things that might not be. 
And hopes that had no morrow — 



TYBEE'S BELL 



To ring some golden triumph in, 
Some foolish joy to heighten, 

Or, chiming calm as passing prayers, 
Some mortal grief to lighten. 

That was the dream of Tybee's bell. 

Alas ! In thousand steeples 
Its fellows clang of life, love, joy. 

High o'er the shouting peoples, 
But this lone voice, chained in the flood 

In rising tides or falling. 
Knows but the leper cry, " Sheer off ! 

Sheer off ! Pass by me ! " calling. 

O faithful friend, when, with the seas, 

Has passed thine ancient guarding, 
Somewhere may thy best dreams denied 

Come true ; and thy rewarding 
Be, far within some happy coasts, 

Across the stormless weather. 
Foremost of all, to catch good news. 

And ring wide heaven together. 
















86 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Old School House 

Over the crumbling walls 

A wild vine wanders, 
Under the roof all day 

A brown owl ponders, 
Rabbits at twilight pla}^ 

Among the grasses 
Inside the playground — once 

For lads and lasses. 

Yet 'tis a school house still, 

Though now new teachers 
Set here the daily tasks 

For shy wood-creatures; 
Here chipmunks sit erect 

To say their graces, 
Or wash with velvet paws 

Brown velvet faces. 

Over the door the wren 
Her four eggs hiding, 

Soon all her crumbs will be 
By four dividing. 

Squirrels, too, have their sums, 
For all their gadding — ■ 

Shellbarks and chinkapins 
And acorns adding. 



THE LILIES' HYMN 8; 



Where once the window was 

Long legged spiders 
Work out geometry 

Without dividers, 
And sparrows in the dust 

(When they're not fighting) 
Do rows of tracks they call 

Spencerian writing. 

Here, too, the holidays 

Through the long daytime, 
Come, as they came to us, 

Recess and play-time, 
And the old ruin rings 

From floor to rafter 
With the gay quips of birds 

The bunnies' laughter. 

The Lilies' Hymn 

Midnight and Spring and Sharon in its glory 
Lay round me musing in the starlight dim, 

And wrapped' in mem'ries of the Old, Old Story, 
I slept ; and dreaming, heard the Lilies' Hymn. 

Is it not ours to bask in sheltered spaces 
Down sunlit borders by the garden wall, 

Nor feel like night-dews on our lifted faces 

The tinkling fountain's wind-blown waters fall. 

For us the fields where truant streamlets wander. 
Our straggling cohorts know nor rank nor file; 

We envy not the great stars wheeling yonder, 
A word made them : God made us with a smile. 



THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Wild lilies we, by men unmarked, untend'ed, 
In careless clusters set 'mid grasses blithe, 

The oxen's hoofbeats tread us down unfended, 
Nor can our sweetness stay to-morrow's scythe. 

Yet are we blest above the queenliest roses — 
Today to grow ; tomorrow, all unvexed, 

To fade; then when this little lifetime closes 
To bloom immortal in the Master's text. 



The Light-Ship 

She lies far out along the bar, 
A ghost by day, by night a star 

That sways and swings and dips ; 
Though chained, she knows no anchored ease- 
Though tides are full and fresh the breeze, 
She rides, but may not sail the seas, 

This sentinel of ships : 
Hers but to watch by ruin's lair, 
And lift her warning light in air. 

Her sides are oak of triple strength. 
Her mast a pine-tree's sturdy length, 

Unhelped of boom or spar 
The lantern bears, her only sail ; 
Yet naked thus she dares the gale. 
With plunging prow and buried rail, 

Or breasts the breakers' war — 
An amazon of courage high 
Who may not fight and will not fly. 



THE LIGHT-SHIP 89 



Her sister ships their wings have spread, 
Perhaps by dark Magellan's head 

Or on Ionian seas ; 
Dim Greenland's isles of ice they knew, 
They sailed Hawaii's waters blue. 
And Aden's shallows loitered through. 

Along the dying breeze ; 
And she, in calms when cables slack, 
May drift five fathoms out — and back. 

Not hers in glassy bays to seem 

A dream-bark mirrored in a dream. 

Nor hers the joy to feel 
Her black hull on and onward whirled. 
The rush of winds, the waves upcurled 
High o'er her bows, as round the world 

She sweeps on bounding keel. 
While ocean 'neath her laughs and swings. 
And ropes are songs and sails are wings. 

And yet no bulk of senseless stone 
Is she, on some stern cliff alone — 

A ship's heart in her beats ; 
She thrills to every tide that turns. 
Her naked mast for canvas yearns, 
And each proud timber in her spurns 

The chain that still defeats 
Her forward plunge, and holds her slave 
Whose will is tameless as the wave. 



90 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



She will not always fettered ride — 
Some night at turning of the tide, 

When God's great winds are out, 
A lightning bolt her bonds will rive. 
And she, unchained, alert, alive, 
Will on her one mad voyage drive. 

And, 'mid the mighty rout. 
While heaven and earth commingled roar, 
Pass — to be seen of men no more. 

The Last Homing 

" Good-night ! " the pitying sun 

Spake in his glory, 
" O man, thy day is done, 

And done thy story; 
I on thy native hills 

A while did mind thee — 
Good-bye : to-morrow noon 
I shall not find thee." 
"Good-night!" the answer quickly came, "and if thou 

wilt, good-bye, 
Who knows if when I come again I'll need thee in the 
sky?" 

" Farewell ! " the waters cried, 

Mournfully flowing, 
" Farewell ! " the night-wind sighed, 

Restlessly blowing. 
" We that have lovers been 

Part at the portal — 
Pass, as thy fellows pass. 

Adieu, O mortal." 



IN TRINITY CHURCHYARD qt 



Said he, " Be done with dirges now : go learn the whirl- 
wind's song, 
For ye shall shout it when I come, nor deem the waiting 
long." 

* 
" O Master, kind and true " — 

So grasses twining 
Down in the moss and dew 

Whispered repining — 
" Bitter the day will be 
And sore the wonder 
When our thick-crowding feet 
Shall tread thee under ! " 
" Grow green and sweet, O friends," he cried, " and some- 
time where ye wave, 
I'll come 'mid shining troops and say, " this green spot was 
my grave." 



In Trinity Churchyard 

In the churchyard at Trinity 

They know 'tis night 
Not by the lessening industry 
And changing light. 
But when men's footsteps somewhat faintlier sound 
In the long stillnesses low in the ground 
Rises a silvery tinkle 
Of tiny springs that sprinkle 
Their darkling music ; and the sleepers know 
'Tis night in Trinity. 



92 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



In the churchyard at Trinity 

When spring is near, 
Not by the tender greenery 
The low graves wear, 
And hyacinths in pink and purple bloom 
And bees and birds and sunlight and perfume — 
But by the white roots hidden 
That wrap them round unbidden 
With clinging tendrils soft, the sleepers know 
'Tis spring in Trinity. 

Little they care in Trinity 

If in the street 
(Where trade's mad tides unceasingly 
Commingling meet) 
Swift fortune smiles, or riches that might dower 
Golconda's princess vanish in an hour — 
Whose name is fastest fading 
Whose mosses most are shading 
On the old gravestones — these the questions great 
For men of Trinity. 

They have not heard in Trinity 

How the town grows, 
Nor of that mountain majesty 
Its sky-line shows ; 
Low in the grass they lie, and have no care 
If the world deem their city foul or fair — 
Not men nor ships nor money 
They prize, but those few sunny 
Hours that are daily theirs : in this agree 
All men of Trinity. 



ON TANTRAMAR 93 



The gentlefolk at Trinity 

Inside the fence, 
Still keep their ancient dignity 
And consequence ; 
They know not how a man might fitlier fare 
Than— when he's buried— to be buried there, 
And 'mid congenial neighbors 
Rest from his earthly labors 
In that green island set in stormy seas, 
The yard at Trinity. 



On Tantramar 

We showed him all the city's pride. 
Our streets and towers and harbors wide, 
Yet not for these his woodsman's eyes 
Gleamed once with wonder or surprise ; 
He looked our latest marvels through 
And heard more tongues than Babel knew 
Unmoved; his homesick thoughts afar 
Still roamed the shores of Tantramar. 

But on the dusky bay by chance 
Our Northman cast an upward glance, 
And lo ! across the fading blue 
A silent wild-fowl phalanx drew. 
And as he marked with face alight 
Their ordered wheeling down the night, 
" They came," we heard him sighing say, 
" From Tantramar but yesterday ! " 



94 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



"On Tantramar " (and now his words 
Ranged freely as his vanished birds), 
" Like night-clouds driving in from sea, 
The wild-fowl gather countlessly ; 
Their myriads paint the marshes brown. 
Their wings outroar your clanging town. 
For days ; and then 'twixt sun and sun 
The call conies, and their hosts are gone." 

" On Tantramar the marshes spread, 
Once in the sunset ruby red. 
Now daily wear a dimmer tone ; 
The ice-rim round the pools has grown, 
And soon, where now the ripples play, 
The fox's foot shall careless stray, 
And hares their moonlit revels keep 
On snow-piled Tantramar asleep." 

" Then, then we heap the hearthstone high, 
As kin and clansmen gather nigh, 
Good cheer, good friends, and kindly word 
Enliven then the festal board. 
Or else far over wood and lake 
Our snow-shoe bands their outing take. 
And song and laughter tingle far 
Across the fens of Tantramar." 
We listened ; and our clanging ways 
Grew tame, when thus we heard him praise 
The wilds, for us uncharted yet, 
Wherein his eager youth was set ; 
For though we boast of storied art, 
'Tis nature's touch still rules the heart. 
And a bird's flight may help unbar 
Our path to some lost Tantramar. 



THE VILLAGE STREET 95 



The Village Street j 

People say the street was run , 

Long before a house was done — j 
With a tinkle, tankle, tinkle, 

Ere the vesper stars did twinkle, ; 

Or the night-dews 'gan to sprinkle , 

Thirsty grasses sweet, ' 
Upward from the velvet meadows. 

Homeward through the growing shadows, j 

Came the cattle's feet, 1 
And the path where they would wander, 

Winding here and wheeling yonder— 1 

That is now the street. > 

That was years ago, they say, ! 

But it runs the same today — i 

By the clanging smithy sweeping, j 

Past the gray church-pillars creeping, I 

Widening like a white pool sleeping ( 

Round the hitching poles, \ 
Where the sun-burned farmers dicker, 

And old Bess and Dapple whicker 1 

To their truant foals — j 

Thence it passes downward swerving j 
Toward the whisp'ring willows curving 

Where the river rolls. 

Changes come but slowly here — I 
One may see, this very year, 

As of old, a grandame riding, ( 

To the stile her sorrel guiding, j 

In her level basket hiding j 

7 



96 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Homely golden store, 
And her newly starched sun-bonnet 
Has a small blue-figure on it 

As had those of yore ; 
Quaint is she, but wholly human, 
Like a sweet, old-fashioned woman 

Back in 'fifty-four. 

More than careless eye may meet 
Visits in this quiet street — 
Here are dreams in open daytime, 
Visions out of vanished play-time, 
Youth and joy and budding May-time, 

We had fancied done : 
Yonder shouting Barefoot lusty 
Paddling down the roadway dusty 

Little thinks of one 
Far away, who drops his trouble, 
And, in dreams, the Barefoot's double, 

Shares his foolish fun. 

Aye, a-many ghosts go down 
This dim street of Haunted Town — 
Hearts that far afield were roaming 
Hither turn them in the gloaming. 
Like the white-winged pigeons homing. 

Now no more to stray, 
And if longing could unravel 
Knitted life, and pilgrims travel 

Paths of Yesterday, 
We too o'er our faded meadows, 
Homeward through the lonely shadows. 

Glad would wend our way. 



LADDIE'S FISHING 97 



Laddie's Fishing 

The oriole whistles his nesting song, 

The bees as they fondle the clover 
Keep humming, " It's June, June ! " all day long 

To the same note over and over. 
The listening w^inds lift the chorus high 

Till the corn-blades rustle and quiver, 
And a bit of a tune the lad's lips try 

As he hies away to the river. 
The bees they are humming, "It's June, June, June!" 

And 7vhat is there more to be luishing 
When Youth and the year together chime noon 

And Laddie is going a-fishingf 

He casts him his line in the glassy pool 

At the foot of the gnarled old willow 
And sitting there, dreams he is done with school — 

He's a hunter, or ploughs the billow ; 
But a sliver of bark comes floating by, 

And, not now of his fishing thinking. 
He feigns it a ship, and the pebbles fly 

Till he has the enemy sinking. 
The bees they keep humming, ''It's June, it's June!" 

And what is there left to be ztnshing 
When Youth and the year are chiming high noon, 

And Laddie is busy a-fishingf 



98 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



A locust is singing in yonder vine — 

No ! It is the reel that is whirring ! 
And something is tugging hard at the line 

That would set even old blood stirring. 
Ah ! There he leaps upward in silvery curve ! 

He's a big one — hold hard and steady ! 
As he falls back, let the line sidewise swerve, 

And reel in — but always be ready ! 
The zi-'orld all around him is June, glad June 

And what can there he to be wishing, 
When the reel zuhirrs out its jubilant tune 

And Laddie is zvild zvith the fishing f 

But over the meadows a clear voice calls, 

It's Nannie, her turkey-broods cooping, 
And out of the west as the twilight falls, 

The nighthawks come screaming and swooping. 
Reel up, my lad, it is time to be done ; 

And anon in the wayside grasses. 
The gossipping rabbits like shadows run 

As the fisherman whistling passes. 
Oh, Youth and Summer are over too soon, 

And somezuhat is left to be wishing — 
But fair in the young night shines a new moon, 

And Laddie is home from the fishing. 

The Conjurer 

Dim lies the dawn along the dozing pools 
That break in ripples round his silent feet 

As to and fro, with lore not learned in schools 
He sways his wand and makes the spell complete. 



A DREAM OF GODS 99 



Then at his bidding from their watery lair 
Bright spirits rise, in glistening mail arrayed, 

Plough the clear stream, or flashing wheel in air 
Or downward plunge, by that mute spell betrayed. 

Rebellious they; but in tense circles wide 
The quivering rod works out the master's will 

Till, one by one, each mail-clad sprite beside 
The conjurer floats, subdued, but fluttering still. 

" What have you caught ? " at eve the children cry. 

The conjurer's shining eyes foreshew the truth; 
" June have I caught," he laughs, " new world, new 
sky, 

And, for these tingling hours, mine own lost youth." 



A Dream of Gods 

" Choose ye whom 3^e will serve," I heard a cry. 

And lo ! I stood within a circling slope 

Himalaya-high, whereon assembled stood 

The earth's unnumbered nations. Race with Ract 

And People joined with People, still they spread, 

Thick as wheat-ears on Manitoban plains. 

Or mimic hosts that leap when volleying skies 

Assail the sea. The eye no respite found, 

No grateful interval; but far and near 

The changeless scene withheld its wonted charm 

Of wood and field and river. Nature now 

Produced but Man, and all the visible world 

Was faces. 



loo THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Then appeared in midmost view 
A walled arena, and I heard, or dreamed 
I heard, a voice proclaim that men were come 
To choose their gods : whereat a darkness slew 
The white mid-noon, and sudden silence reigned 
To break at last in thunder. Thrice it crashed 
From cloudless skies ; the dark to twilight wanned ; 
Vast shadows gloomed, and whisperings came and went, 
And all hearts were as his who gasping counts 
The sick eternities of dread between 
Quick coming shocks of earthquake. But whoso 
Shook off his terrors, was aware of One 
That in the arena drove on wheels of fire. 
And broad noonday returned, and mortal eyes 
Looked deity i' the face. 

Who this might be. 
Mars, Thor, or Shiva, or that greater name 
Before whose shrine the Carthaginian lad 
Swore the. deep oath that nigh unthroned Rome, 
I knew not; but all warrior hearts to him 
Welcome and worship gave in battle-shouts 
That shook the mountains. After, each in turn 
Unfellowed from his sky, or East or West, 
And sole in the arena, came the gods. 
Came Jove and his Olympians, bibled all 
In Homer's page ; next, dreaming Shapes of Ind, 
And that dark Pair the black-capped Persians chant 
Where Behistun its triple record keeps, 
Ormuzd and Ahriman ; red Moloch came, 
And Baal great, his overthrow forgot. 
On Carmel, and the priests Elijah slew; 
Then Dagon flashed his fish-scales ; last drew near 



A DREAM OF GODS 



Strange cat-faced Things by ancient Egypt shrined 
Where that wise husbandman, the brooding Nile, 
Sows a drowned land with life. 

They came not now 
Manlike to strive, each against each. Not so 
Immortals vie. They but themselves outdid. 
Not one the other ; with uplifted hand 
Made night, or led the astonished day from noon 
Back to his vanished dew ; bade the moon turn 
The face she hides, and stars untimely rise ; 
Dragged comets backward by their blazing hair 
Across the skies ; called up the unborn years 
And sowed young souls like snowflakes ; Time and Death 
And Fate together yoked, and drove them tame 
As Venus' doves ; showed themselves lords supreme 
Of wind, wave, harvests, famine, fevers, wars, 
Men, manners, kingdoms. All they did, the gods 
Alone may utter. 

Yet one deed divine 
Would I rehearse. I heard Apollo sing. 

Not on the earth he stood, but lifted up 
High on a changeful cloud, now tinct with dawn, 
Now gray as starless night on dreaming snows. 
And if the cloud turned, or the god alone 
Turned in his song, I know not, but methought 
All the world-throng beheld him face to face. 

Low breathed the deep beginning. None might say 
Where Silence dipped her coasts in Song's sweet seas, 
Or when we launched thereon. At once afloat 
We found us, and to float on that full tide 
Was bliss unknown. Nay, if Elysium lay 



102 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Beyond such seas, the great souls thither bound 
Would loiter like schoolboys along the way. 
All senses now were swallowed up in one, 
All thought, all feeling, aye, the soul itself 
Sat in the ear ; as when some city's throng 
Stall, hall, and home, and market-place forsake 
And crowd the minster gates to crown their king. 
Crowned in their hearts already. If the spell 
Lay on us, for an hour, or hour of years, 
None knew; but all too soon the tuneful flood 
Caressed us homeward, and our spirits touched 
Once more the gray coasts of Reality. 

So the god sang and ceased or would have ceased 
But for a passionate cry, born of a heart 
Insatiate. " Lo, thy songs" (so rang the cry) 
" Be all of heaven. Sing us, O God, the songs 
Of men." 

An instant then Apollo paused. 
Laid down his lyre, his lissom fingers clasped 
Behind him, and, a simple-hearted youth. 
Supreme in beauty, lifted up his voice 
Again. 

He sang of Youth and June ; green fields 
And dancing feet and velvet orchard floors 
Pink with perfumed snows ; of bees and birds 
And the shy tinkle of too-happy brooks 
Wimpling among the roses. Then young Love 
Moved through the music, and with him first came 
The troubled note that, like the sombre lines 
In imaged light, runs through all mortal joy. 



A DREAM OF GODS 103 



Not this the sounding chant Olympus knew, 

Nor a god singing ; earthly bliss and grief 

Mixed in these chords, an aching bliss, a grief 

Dearer than half our joys. All human life 

Flowed through the melody, and evermore 

Echoing sighs ; until at last the god 

Leaving the palpable, in haunting strains 

Too keen, too thrilling sweet for homesick hearts 

To exile doomed, 'gan breathe of unsung hopes 

And deep unutterable dreams that are 

The soul's blind fumbling at the breast of Fate 

Here in Time's darkness. Then with sound of tears. 

Like the night rain in desolate Autumn woods, 

A broken cry went up, " Forbear, O God, 

Forbear, lest thou shouldst slay us with thy song ! " 

And all that day the old gods came and went, 

Hailed each by his own nations, until all 

Had passed ; yet with expectant faces still 

The World was waiting, and mine own heart stirred, 

I knew not why, until afar I saw 

Among the people One who long unknown 

Had moved among them. He alone nor glance 

Nor word gave the arena. Not the gods 

Claimed him, nor their great deeds, but mortal men. 

Dagon, the fish-god, high on gilded wheels 

Departing, while the whirlwind shouts behind 

Proclaimed him lord of many an ancient race, 

Met face to face the Stranger, headlong fell 

And was not. Yet when once the throng unleashed 

Brake o'er the barriers, and warm human flesh 

Muffled the horses' hoofstrokes and the whirr 



I04 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 

Of chariot wheels, than this meek Presence bent 

Low o'er the huddled heaps and touched and straight 

Remade them men. Few were the words he spake 

And low, but all as dear in listening ears 

As fountains rippling through a parched dream. 

None named his name, nor worshipped ; yet, as when 

The day-king tops the mountain, here and there 

A lonely pinnacle shines back at him 

While all else is in shadow, so the souls 

High on Life's sky-line kindled one by one 

When this King rose upon them. Blessings deep 

Alone went after him, as to and fro 

Healing, uplifting, comforting he passed. 

And flashing silently down face by face 

The knowledge of him dawned to open day. 

Thereat a whisper passed among the throng, 

And at the sound, the Stranger, strange no more. 

Uprising slowly with a sleeping child 

Hushed in His arms, looked on the folk. 

Somewhat, 
Or mist or veil it seemed, still hung between 
His face and ours, and none had vision clear. 
What port, what brow, what eyes were His, awaits 
Our knowledge yonder, where good dreams come true ; 
But this I know — who saw that face forgot 
That phantom crew of godless gods, and all 
Their phantom deeds ; forgot the palpitant sea 
Of Humankind around him; yea, himself 
Forgot, and God was all in all. 

At last 
A voice, of myriad myriad tongues conjoined 
In one great utterance of assembled Man, 
Worshipping rose. 



WHEN THE BEES SWARM 105 



" Yet, yet a little while " | 

(So swelled the prayer) "be patient with us still. j 

We have had gods before, but none like Thee, j 

So worn and marred and scarred yet all divine. . ^ 

What are these wounded hands so passing soft 
Upon our wounded hearts, these tears that dim 

The Godhead in Thine eyes ? Canst Thou be He ' 

Whom once we slew? Ho, Pilate, Caiaphas, j 

Stand forth, and judge once more what Man is this! j 

Needs not ! We know Thee now : Thy name is Love ! | 
Now is Thy kingdom come, O Brother. Friend, , ] 
And God o'er all, blessed forevermore ! " 

And with that worship in mine ears, I woke, 1 

And sought the window ; night was well-nigh gone 

From street and square below ; a carven Pan, | 

Cowering among his shadows, stiffened fast j 

To senseless bronze ; and shining high in heaven 

A sunlit cross proclaimed our King — and day. 

When the Bees Swarm 

White-armed Jenny's at the table 

Singing soft and low, . 

Busy with her Sunday ruffles | 

Crisp and white as snow, ' 

Humming mother's quaint and homely ^ 

Song of long ago. 

" Polly, put the kettle on, j 

Polly, put the kettle on, ] 

Polly, put the kettle on, 

We'll all take tea." I 



io6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



In the dooryard dandelions 

Strew their careless bloom, 
Lilac plumes and cherry blossom 

Mingle their perfume, 
All the world is May, and Sorrow 
Only hath no room. 

Singeth still the dainty maid, 
Singeth lonely, unafraid, 
Of the part that Polly played 
When all took tea. 

But there comes another humming. 

Buzzing, on the breeze, 
Startled Jenny in the doorway 
Glancing through the trees, 
Covers up her white arms, crying, 
" Mercy ! It's the bees ! " 
Now it's get the kettle out, 
Jenny, bang the pans about, 
Jenny, ring the bell and shout, 
When May bees swarm. 

Father's busy with the planting, 

Mother's on the hill 
Looking for a nesting turkey, 

Jenny with a will 
Calls for help, and calling, struggles 
Single-handed still. 
Jenny, get the pail and cup, 
Jenny, fling the water up, 
Fling and ring and never stop, 
When May bees swarm. 



WHEN THE BEES SWARM 



107 



Now again she tries the kettle, 

Now the mimic shower — 
Will they never settle? She has 

Held them half an hour, 
If her aching arms may witness, 
And she's losing power. 

Courage, Jenny ! Wizards say 
That a swarm like this in May 
Well is worth a ton of hay, 
So ring your bell. 



Here, at last, is father, saying, 

" Bravo ! that will do ; 
They are settling on the plum-tree ; 

Well, I'll see it through, 
Run away now to your mother ; 
What? They stung you, too? 
Run, you little paragon. 
Mother, put a poultice on. 
While I bend the branches down. 
And hive these bees.'' 




io8 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Quest. 

" If Love hath power to heal men of their woes, " 

(I prayed to Love's queen flower), 
" It is the dewdrop in thy heart, O Rose ; 

Now let me taste its power." 
My Lady Rose bent low her beauteous head, 

I heard this whisper break, 
" Love heals no hurt," she sighed the while she said- 

" Save that Love's self did make." 

Then to the Laurel I, " If wreathed Fame 

Of thy proud leaves distils 
The wondrous nard that ancient seers proclaim, 

Wilt thou not ease mine ills ? " 
Answered the leaves, " Were that thou pray'st upon 

In Fame's wide kingdoms found. 
King Arthur had not gone to Avalon 

To cure him of his wound.'" 

" Teach me thy sorcery, thou drowsy bloom," 

(I prayed the Poppy red), 
" Let me, who cannot flee, forget my doom, 

On thy dark balsams fed." 
Breath of the flowers across my senses stole, 

A hushed voice murmured, " So 
Men drown To-day, but on To-morrow roll 

Immeasurable woe." 



MERCURY 109 



Remained the Vine ; and I with Bacchus' train 

LolHng in wanton ease, 
Heard Omar babbling in vinolent strain 

Melodious blasphemies, 
But found no help ; nor dared I, like him, prone 

Along the wine-stained sod, 
Assume the judge, and for the sins mine own 

Hands wrought, forgive my God ! 

But in the last black gateway toward despair 

Methought one took my hand 
And led' me up a barren hillside where 

One tree looked o'er the land. 
" O Seeker for the balm of Ygdrasil," 

He said, " Behold the tree ! " 
I looked ; then trembling scanned that barren hil 

And lo ! 'twas Calvary ! 



Mercury 

He speeds no more on winged heel 

No wand with serpents twining 
He bears, nor wears his antique cap 

Of brazen metal shining. 
The purse he bore has grown a pouch 

As time his fortune betters, 
And he who was Jove's messenger 

Is now our Man of Letters. 



no THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 

His fellow-gods were rustics all, 

And loved the wood and mountain, 
He long ago moved into town ; 

No leafy, lonely fountain 
Claims him to-day, nor woodland shrine 

Where Prayer looks up to Pity, 
For Mercury's in business now, 

With office in the city. 

In formal cap and coat of gray, 

With portly pouch of leather 
He walks the streets in summer glow 

And wildest winter weather. 
I hear him passing, though he leaves 

Nor paper nor epistle — 
Men knew him once by staff and shoon- 

I know him by his whistle. 

He brings no word from Jupiter, 

(Of heaven, or of Olympus), 
And still will he in news of Mars 

And Mistress Venus skimp us ; 
But human griefs and joys and fears 

In daily round he carries. 
And hearts are few that beat at ease 

If long his footsteps tarries. 

He leaves a note for sweetheart Nell, 

For me the news from China, 
With Kaiser Wilhelm's latest feat, 

(A poem on "The Mina"), 
The haughty sheet for which Quill writes, 

And that for which Penn sketches, 
With bills and dues and billets-doux 

All these our Gray-coat fetches. 



JACKSON'S MONUMENT 



Though strange to us his vanished gods, ' | 

Majores et Minores, ' 

Their ancient envoy turned to man ' 

Right welcome at the door is ; ' 
Then health to him ! And may his " beat" 

Both gain and pleasure bring him, 

With other bards in later times ; 

And worthier verse to sing him. \ 

{ 



Jackson's Monument 



O laughing Shenandoah, in whose name 

Thy waters whisper, and thou cloud-capped wall, 
Gray Massanutten, who would lightly call 

Ye aught beside, must bear a lasting blame ; 

Yet I, remembering whose sudden fame 

Grew where your ripples sing, your shadows fall, 
And grows forever, grandest far of all 

Your Valley's harvest, would that change proclaim ; 
Yea, in his name this mount should rear its head. 

The while along its base with silvery gleam 
The river writes in lines of all men read 

His wars immortal. And the world should deem 
This just memorial to the deathless dead. 

That Stonewall Mountain stands by Jackson's Stream. 

Note. — Massanutten Mountain stretches for forty miles 
through the Shenandoah Valley, the scene of Jackson's 
most brilliant campaign, and is washed on both sides by 
the twin forks of the Shenandoah. 
8 



112 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The King's Friend 

King Solomon was old — 
The cares of his kingdom weighed on him. 
The sins of his children preyed on him. 
And his new queen's fancies played on him, 

When Solomon was old — 

Grown old and sick and sad. 

But on a day it fell 
That the sick king roused him suddenly 
And said to his servants, " Put on me 
My crown and my royal robes ; and see 

That all the heralds tell 

The king holds court to-day." 

Then feet ran to and fro. 
And in the palace was wild dismay, 
But none might the royal word gainsay — 
They put on him all his rich array, 

And, wond'ring, watched him go 

Up to his ivory throne. 

He sat him down, and straight 
The old light dawned in the old eyes dim, 
The old flush glowed in the old face grim 
And strength and beauty awhile to him 

Returned. He spake elate 

" Bring to me my best friend." 



THE KING'S FRIEND 113 



" Let the king's will be done ! " 
They said, but with starts and stares between, 
Till a courtier whispered, " Tell the queen ; 
Mayhap she knoweth what this may mean." 

Smiling, the queen said, " Run, 

Bring my lord word I come." 

She came with maidens fair, 
Whose beauty to hers was leaf to rose, 
Or lashes to eyes on which they close, 
Or drifting foam to the drifted snows ; 

But the king smiling there. 

Waved the bright band aside. 

They brought his children then. 
And many a bearded princeling tall 
And wide-eyed wondering damsel small 
Came thronging into the royal hall, 

Only to pass again — 

Their sire would none of them. 

Some hero then they sought ; 
They hunted for wise men through the town, 
For poets, counsellors, up and down. 
And only to meet the king's slow frown ; 

Until at last distraught 

They stood with folded hands. 

Then Solomon uprose 
And stood on the last stair, eager eyed, 
" Give place, for the king's friend comes ! '' he cried 
All turned ; on the great hall's further side, 

Untouched, the doors unclose. 

And with a shivering wind 



114 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



A shadowy figure came, 
(Some after swore no figure was there — 
Some spake of his moonlit eyes, his hair — 
And some dreamed long of his kingly air) — 

And a thin wisp of flame 

Flashed from the king to him. 

So on the the marble cold 
" 'Neath the ivory throne — the story saith — 
The weary monarch resigned his breath 
To his last and longed for friend, King Death 

For Solomon was old — 

Grown old and sick and sad. 



The Road of Dreams 

'Tis no dim woodland way 
With floor of grass broidered with fringed pools 
Of filtered sunlight, where dame partridge schools 

Her brood at dusk o' day, 
Nor orchard path, o'er which in odorous bower 
The oriole blooms, a winged and singing flower. 

New blown in new blown May. 

It is no clanging street 
Due east and west unwandering, bare and straight 
Down 'twixt the housetops as the path of Fate, 

Where is cold Mammon's seat, 
And staring changeless as a blind man's eyes 
The endless windows row on row arise 

Above the hurrying feet. 



THE ROAD OF DREAMS 115 ] 

\ 

\ 



Yet doth the dream road he 
Ahke in field and town ; twin bands of steel 
On bedded logs, down which on clanking wheel 

The long freight trains go by, 
By day and night, and travelers grand and strange 
And visions bright this grimy pathway range, 

To a discerning eye. 

What, think you, passes now, 
Just giant sawlogs? Nay! I see a tall 
Pine tree that tiptoe on Tacoma's wall 

A thousand years his brow 
Lifted cloud-high, to watch through devious miles 
The ever changing, swift, far flashing smiles 

That Puget's waves endow. 

Yon dull heaps are not coal. 
But leaf and flower and frond — poor smothered things 
Mummied and buried, like old Eg>^pt's kings. 

When earth from pole to pole 
Was ceaseless summer : these great blocks of stone 
Are templed Karnak, or walled -Babylon, 

As past me now they roll. 

And more than new-reaped grain 
These dusky vans bring by ; I see the surge 
Of billowy wheatfields rippling toward the verge 

Of wide horizons ; plain 
Comes a keen whirr of harvest wheels; and kind 
Nature in new lands far brings back to mind 

The Age of Gold again. 



ii6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



These gossip airs that tell 
What summer fruits are passing, tell not all — 
They bring, unknown, a garden with its wall 

And orange trees that spell 
Summer and Southland ; and the vanished face 
That blessed my garden wears the old, old grace 

My childhood loved so welll 

So at the open door 
Musing, I watch the dream-world rolling by, 
Old scenes, and faces dead that cannot die — 

And, all my wanderings o'er, 
Rest by the roadside ; or, if I must roam, 
Make but short journeys, travel still at home. 

And mine own soul explore. 



The Anesthetic 

In clinging napkins, softly cool. 
They lap me, cheek and brow. 

" Breathe easily," a pleasant voice 

Says in mine ear. And now 

Blown odors from Oblivion's isles 

Salute my sense ; and I. 

En route, but lingeringly alive, 

Am wondering, as I fly. 

How near — that — chartless coast may be- 

The brink — the plunging-place — 



NIGHT FLOWERS T17 



And while I wonder, lo ! my wife 
Bends down with shining face. 
"All's over, hours ago!" she cries. 

Amen ! With courage new 

I rise. I know what death is now, 

And resurrection, too. 



Night Flowers 

As weary travelers in a train 

That stops they know not where, 

Catch sometimes through the windows borne 
Along the still night air, 

A breath so sweet, their tired hearts, 

Reviving 'neath its power. 
Know well that hidden somewhere near 

The wild grape vine's in flower, 

So, oft a sudden sweetness here 
Breathes through our pilgrim gloom. 

And we too know that somewhere near, 
God hath a soul in bloom. 



Pilate 

Still on the judgment-seat he sits 

In his dark place apart. 
One sound forever in his ears, 

One anguish at his heart. 



ii8 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



He hears no gnashings of the pit, 

No groans of long despair, 
But tones of kindly living men 

That rise as calm as prayer. 

He hears, and hears till time shall end, 

The ransomed Nations tell 
Of One whom Pontius Pilate slew — 

And that is Pilate's hell. 



Like Zaccheus 

" Say, hold up a minute ! O, stranger, wait ! " 

He called, and came down the hill 
From the cabin crouched in the edge of the pines, 

As the traveler's horse stood still. 

"Be you-uns a preacher?" Jes' so! "That's good. 

Then you-uns can tell me true — 
Is they any sycamore trees in heaven ? " 

The parson stared, but the blue 

Eyes bent on his own like a levelled gun 

Were dark with a haunting pain. 
And he answered, wondering, " That, my friend, 

Is a thing not yet made plain. 

But why must you know ? " 'Tain't me, it's the boy 

Must know, " said the mountaineer. 
" He's been mighty po'ly a long spell now. 

And 'pears like he's bound to hear 



LIKE ZACCHEUS iig 



" 'Bout them sycamores. Could you-uns light down 

And set by him for a while? 
I'd sho'ly be thankful." Though yet his home 

Was distant many a mile, 

The preacher alighted and climbed the hill 

And came to the cabin door ; 
The face of a dwarfed and crippled lad 

Looked up from the earthen floor, 

A face that had numbered no more of years 
Than would perfect Youth's brief span. 

But had known more pain than is often made 
The lot of a long-lived man. 

And a piping voice that was weak and thin 

Soon was pouring out the tale : — 
"Where 'd I get it? Out o' the book. Look, Pap, 

On the shelf there, by the pail." 

The bible shook in his wasted hands — 

"He was little and -short, like me, 
Old Zaccheus was, and it says he went off 

And dumb up a sycamore tree 

For to see Him pass ; and thinks I to myself. 

That's the very trick ! As shore 
As ever I come where my Lord goes by, 

I'll find me a sycamore, 

If so be they is any ; for I know ' 

It'll be a monst'us crowd. 
With them angels a-marchin' down the street, 

And the harps all playin' loud, 



120 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



And I'm 'feared, onless they's some trees up there 

That's limby and low and free, 
That my Lord'll come smilin' and shinin' by, 

And I'll — have — no — chance — to — see." 
********* 
The preacher tried thrice ere the words would come, 

(They were old words, grand and good). 
And he lingered long by the pallet low, 

And when through the darkening wood 

He rode, the monarchs that over him towered. 

Pine, maple, and hickory, 
He passed unheeding, and under his breath 

Said, *' The svcamore for me." 



The Worker And His Work 

" Not only for Angels," the angel said, 
" And Mortals — for us and for you, 

God paints the plumes on the wings of the moth 
And the splendor that flashes through 

When sunset opens the gates of the west — 

Now hearken. A long-ago day 
In heaven was festival set ; for a star, 

New-made and star-cycles away. 

Its first rich harvest of glory had sent 

To lay at the foot of the throne ; 
But the triumph tarried ; the songs were mute. 

For the Lord from his place was gone. 



THE WORKER AND HIS WORK 



We found him at last in the world of Man, 

In a hidden and lonely vale. 
Where a woodman's cabin stood by a lake 

And the end of a grassy trail. 

The woodman was sleeping. A great red moon 

Came over the shadowy hill, 
And wondering gazed on another moon 

And her stars in the waters still, 

As the moon has done since the first night fell ; 

And there in the whispering wood 
God looked on his handiwork while men slept, 

And again he declared it good. 

And not till those bright twin visions had passed, 

And the light on the lake was thin, 
Did the waiting throng in the courts above 

Hear the word from the throne, 'Begin.' 

"Not only for Angels," the angels said, 
" And Mortals — for us and for you ; 

His also the beauty of heaven and earth 
Who made it and loveth it too." 




122 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



June Apples 

The tree grew close to the orchard wall 

In a June of the Long Ago, 
(I could show 3^ou yet where the pathway ran 
Through the clover a-bloom below), 

And jewel-red 'twixt the laughing leaves 
Where the clustering apples rare ; 

We knew they were ripe by the tell-tale breath 
Of the breeze that had kissed them there. 

How oft, at the young day's first caress 
On our eyes, we have leaped from bed, 

And with swift feet dashing the dews aside, 
Down the devious path have sped 

To gather the windfall under the tree ! 

Oh, the years as they hurrying pass 
Bring me never again that dear delight 

Of the apples there in the grass. 

Is it because there were shouts that day 

That are long ago silent grown, 
And other feet ran with mine in the road 

I must henceforth travel alone? 

Were the apples as sweet as now I dream ? 

Or is this the usury bold 
That we ever of hoarding Memory claim 

For the joys we lent her of old? 



BEDTIME 123 



Who knows? I only know that the zest 
That was in them of sun and showers — 

The piquant freshness of Youth and the dawn, 
And the sweetness of Life's first flowers. 

Is gone ! Though still by the orchard wall 

They redden, with clover below, 
June apples ripen but once in a life : 

And I had mine summers ago. 



Bedtime 

The Father stopped moulding a star, 

And looked down to men — 
"It is bedtime; put up your toys," 

He said ; and again 

Was busy star-building. But straight 

The children 'gan fret 
And murmur. The Statesman, aggrieved, 

Prayed, "Must I, just yet?" 

The Soldier was pleading, " Oh, wait 

Till after this fight ! " 
And the Poet, shaking his hair, 

Cried, " I hate the night ! " 

And the Lord God answered them not 

Nor yea nor yet nay 
Till his new world, finished and lit, 

Rolled forth and away. 



124 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Then he bent him above them. Their heads 

Were heavy and low, 
And they knew not when their Hmp palms 

Let the playthings go. 

But deep was the smile in his eyes 

And gentle the hands 
That lifted them close to his breast 

And loosened the bands 

That are flesh, and folded away 

Their mortality, 
Though they whimpered a little still, 

Not knowing 'twas he. 

And he laid them down in a place 

Close under his eye, 
There to slumber the long night through, 

With him watching by. 

And out of the dream I had dreamed 

This comfort there grew — 
At bedtime Our Father in Heaven 

Is our Mother too. 



The Discovery 

Bend low, my soul, and listen, listen long! 

Move's in the ztnnd than shouting, or mere song. 
More than earth knows, or sea, or watching sky. 

With day and night goes by. 



THE DISCOVERY 125 



I heard a viewless echo down the wood j 

Say low, " Good, good ! " I 

As once with eager feet \ 

I passed my tryst to meet, j 

And mark arbutus part her leafy covers j 

For me the earliest come of all her lovers. I 

Like quests of old had taught me where to look, , 

And by the piquance of her breath around. ^ 

Along a singing brook, j 

In a warm bight the dainty fair I found ; I 

But while I bent above her, I 

Down the dark coverts of the lonely wood 1 

I heard departing echo saying over \ 

That low, " good, good " ; I 

And that my flower had still an earlier lover, ] 

I understood. I 

Once on the mountain side i 

Hid in the rocks, I watched the whirlwind rise • 

Along the wave. The moon in heaven died, I 
And stars shone lustreless as dead men's eyes 
Behind a sudden veil 

Of mist, that grew a pall, i 
And then a solid wall 
Driving before the gale ; 
It swirled, it moaned, and, bellowing fury, broke 
As hell itself were whelping: wind and wave 
Commingled till it seemed the wind did smoke 

'Gainst jagged cliffs, and howling waters drave 

High up in air; while over all the storm ^ 

Came a great shout, i 
As in the midmost rout 
Somewhat passed by me like an awful form. 



126 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Clouds were his robes, his chariot, clouds his hair, 
White beyond all compare. 

With not a least lock waving 
Despite the raving 
Tornadoes round ; and lightnings at his feet 

Writhed fawning; but his face I might not mee<^ — 
Still unto mortal eye 
Jehovah must be but a God gone by. 

But O my heart, my heart, unsteadily and low 

Beating, and breaking slow — 
The way behind zvas long, before, is lonely 

Thou thinkest, and thou only 
Unfriended onward to the goal must go — • 

Have comfort; waits thee at the turn designed 

One who of old had mind 
To walk zvith Man in Eden's even glow. 

And once in northern wild 
Slowly I loosed mine arm beneath the head 
Of my dead guide, and seemly laid each limb, 
And closed with fingers mild 
Those Indian eyes that never I saw dim 

Till now; and passed outside 
The lonely camp. 

Naught but the snow-fields spread 
Around me there, and' night and silence wide ; 

But high o'erhead, 
Lily and lavender and gold and red, 

Aurora flamed, as if Heaven-town were burning, 



THE DISCOVERY 127 

1 

And all its jewelled walls, j 

Gardens and bowers, i 

Porches and palace-halls 

And shadowy towers, | 

Were, not to ashes, but some new Heaven, turning; J 

And all the sky shook like a shimmering curtain j 

T • 1 i 

In some swart emir s tent, j 

As high and higher j 

Those streamers vast, now single, and now blent | 

In sinuous shapes uncertain, \ 

And many a changing but still awful spire, j 

Lorded the firmament. j 

And hark! Was that a cry, J 

Outlying thunders, or far people shouting? I 

Who knows? But listening in a startled doubting, 

I heard afar, anigh, j 

A deep-drawn, quivering, all-pervading sigh. ' 



Seek him, ye saints, still round your altars pale, 

Or in hushed closets dim; 
I search, in budding praise, the vernal vale 

The sky, the whirlwind's rim — 
Climb, an ye may, O Men, the heights of Duty 
His own feet once in meekest patience trod. 
But I entranced, at some shrine of Beauty 

His ozi'n hand shaped, Lo! I too, iind my God. 
9 



128 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Dream Wreck 

My Love and I went sailing 

High on the heavenly main — 
My Love, to seek new isles of joy, 

And I, to lose or gain. 
A hope, a dream, so thrilling-sweet 

'Twas nigh akin to pain — 
That sometimes waked and sometimes slept, 

But always waked again. 

Earth was a map beneath us — 

And heaven stooped dear and nigh, 
" Now is our kingdom come ! " My Love 

Exulted, " Now we fly ; 
"Yon glory-cloud just gone," she cried 

" Maybe, is God gone by." 
" Or some bright earthly dream," I said, 

" Come true, here in the sky." 

It was not mine ; for gently 

She sighed, and shook her head. 

And ere my stammering tale was done, 
I knew my hope was dead — 

The brightest dream I had on earth, 
In heaven was finished. 

And o'er the misty mountains. 

And back along the seas. 
And o'er the pillared smoke that clomb 

From green clumps that were trees 
Our wide wings brought us home again 

To earth's uncertain ease. 



THE ACCOMPANIST 



129 



And of that wondrous journey, 

These things alone remain— 
For her, a glory-cloud gone by, 

For me an endless pain 
For all Love's argosies that day 

Wrecked on the heavenly main— 
For hopes and dreams that waked and slept, 

But ne'er will wake again. 



The Accompanist 



Seven times her welcome thunders, roar on roar, 
Like Fundy's mightiest storm-tides, till the hall 
Itself is tempest-shaken. Still I wait. 
Never again, since that night when her wrath 
Imperial blazed against me, dare I sound 
The keys too soon. 

But now the tumult dies; 
And turning with a well-earned touch, that owns 
No more a peer than does yon deathless voice, 
I strike the prelude. Round and full and slow 
The liquid bell-notes, perfect each, and all 
Consummate, muster. Then she sings. 

Pearls gleam 
Like moonlight in her midnight hair, and three 
White roses on her white breast rise and fall 
All but unknown; for that which trances sense 
Is her sole self, rich in her double dower 
Of Beauty and of Song. Mine own ears turn 
Not once away, nor would though Israfel 



I30 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS. 



Stood choiring by ; for through th' enchanted doors 
Her magic opens, dreams she has not known 
Drift by, and other voices than the sea 
She sings, commingle with her song. 

" All the rivers come to me — 
Some by temples hoary, holy, 

Some through dosing deserts dim. 
Some by white peaks melancholy 

Watching on the wide world's rim — 
Gliding, gleaming, some in glee. 
Some in sorrow silently, 
Seek the sea." 

How still, 
How rapt, these leaning faces ! — to the eye. 
All eyes, but eyes that seem to listen too. 
For one sense may as little drink this sound 
As one poor window let all daylight in — 
And still along the song my shaded notes 
Unnoticed run. She knows no hand but mine 
Can weave, and weaving, subtly hide the web 
Her voice emblazons into cloth-of-gold ; 
Aye, well she knows I own, I seek, no art 
But ministers to hers. No hope, no dream 
Is mine, no beckoning call of far, bright things 
With half-heard promise of some waiting crown — 
Dear God ! Why should all, all, be hers, and mine 
No kindly word— not even the poor acclaim 
Of perfect aid to her supremacy ! 



THE ACCOMPANIST 131 



For, look you, this mad throng that on their feet 

In tumult shout her name to heaven again. 

In all their praise, have not one thought of me, 

" That shy, poor thing, who plays ! " as once by chance 

P heard them pitying name me. Yet was I 

Born in the purple, and Ambition's heir, 

And when Fate dragged me down, far, far along 

The road to crowning — 

Hark, again she sings — 

" Stranger pilgrims yet there he 
Come to me — 
Waking joys that zuould be sleeping, 

Sleeping grief that's nigh to wake, 
Love and Fame and Terror creeping 

In me rest and refuge take, 
Aye, whatever stars may he, 
And the day, go dozvn in me — " 
Croons the sea. 

I thought this heart of mine had done with pain. 
As broken lyres with throbbing; but this song 
Thrills me afresh. The dark-eyed lad I knew — 
Knew to the least up-curling of the long 
Eyelashes o'er his smiling — comes to me 
From unplumbed darkness of an ocean grave. 
Five years of life — of pain, their double term — 
Have schooled me since he parted, grieved and wroth 



132 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Because she yonder (whom a thousand eyes 
Worshipped that night, as mounting thousands now), 
I fancied looked a thought too kindly on 
My lad, my lad alone ! 

I lost him so — 
The sea-mists mazed him. and Newfoundland gulfs, 
Ambushed in that blind twilight, roared him down ; 
And I crept back to life from listless weeks 
Of waiting at Death's doors, bereft alike 
Of love and power. Music's dead kings no more 
In my swift-moving fingers lived and reigned ; 
One thing alone still could' I compass large. 
At long thereafter, when my life came back — 
Could lend mine art, with passing skill, to lift 
And thrill the singer — 

This one thing I do, 
By grief made keeper of the time and tune 
Of others' triumphs, till there's no more sea. 

"All that is, and is to he, 
Somezvhere, sometime, comes to me — 
Somezi/here also all my rolling 

World of wastes as moons shall zvane, 
Sometime God's doom-bell go tolling 

Me into the void again — 
What am I, and what are ye, 

Mortals all, but Vanity." 
Sighs the sea — 
"Mirth and dust and vanity," 
Moans the sea. 



THE TREE OF LOVE 133 

The Tree of Love 

" Thou hast news ! " They gathered round him ere his 
wings were wholly folden, 
Ben-Azel, angel of God's trees, and all the garden 
throng, 
Newly come from earth with tidings of a thing, till now 
withholden, 
So sweet to tell, his listeners' lips unconscious curved 
for song. 

His face was like a lamp alight. " It is not lost forever !" 
He cried aloud. " But yester-eve, I walked among the 
trees 
Of the garden, Man's old Eden, all along the parted 
river — 
It is not lost, but hidden till God's hand the curtain 
frees. 

But a new tree's come to Eden, though no wind may 
lisp the wonder — 
The ripples on the Hiddekel in silence by it glide, 
And the happy pools of Gihon hold their breath the lilies 
under, 
To keep its mirrored image sleeping on the sleeping 
tide. 



134 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



" By the long-forsaken pathway Adam trod at cool of even, 
It stands, as wrapped in wintry dreams among the 
glowing flowers. 
And — it's whispered — there at dusk again the Visitor 
from Heaven 
Awaits his old companion down the lonely walks and 
bowers. 

" It's a marvel new in Eden in its story and its seeming — 

It bore a priceless harvest once, and now is sere and 

stark ; 

But it's budding; and all Paradise is leaning forth and 

streaming 

In slender tendrils toward it in the day and in the dark. 

" Little red flowers called hosannas thick around its foot 
are springing, 
And eyes no eyes may quite discern watch it from hill 
and glen. 
And though Pishon brings but hints of it, his cliffs break 
into singing. 
And hills far down in Havilah reverberate ' Amen ! ' 

" There's a rumor it was earth-born — on a low hill by a 
garden — 
That this was once the midmost tree in dread 
Golgotha's gloom — 
Heaven send it ! Then some destined day shall Eden's 
angel-warden 
Cry out, * O Man, come back, come home ! The Tree 
of Love's in bloom ! ' " 



THE EMMAUS GUEST US 



The Emmaus Guest 

Pillowed at twilight on the window-seat, 
She took shy invoice of the passers-by, 

Appraising mien and gesture : bearing high 
And air complacent, won of her but fleet, 
Half- wistful glance ; but when with lingering feet, 
And shadowy face, some wayfarer drew nigh. 
On him she turned a timid, asking eye, 
Hoping, though doubting still, a friend to greet. 
Then to me, softly, " It's a play, " she said— 
"/ make believe the zvondrous Emmaus Guest 
In the red twilight may pass by this way." 
Ah, happy one! Here is her empty bed, 
Her crutch, forever idle, though the rest. 
To me, is tears. Her Guest came yesterday. 

The Pine Tree In Town 

Of old his outlook swept the mountain-side 
To either gate of day. Orion rose 
And set before him, and the wind that knows 
All things, would tattle in his branches wide 
Arabian tales; he watched young eagles glide 
On moveless wing, and heard at twilight's close 
The lone wolf howl, or thunder-tongued echoes 
Of some tree's downfall on the night's noontide. 
And now, stripped to the quick, his only view 
What one dull street may hold of earth and sky. 

He lifts the wires, while round him pant and growl 
Labor and Greed— but hears, all tumults through. 
Far o'er remembered lakes, the loon's wild cry. 
Or from the hillside dark, the hooting owl. 



136 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Shepherd's Voice 

{Hymn from A Forthcoming Children's Day Serviced 
Solo Night on the mountain-side, 

Fear on the wold, 
Dangers unseen are near, 

Ills manifold 
Compass the shadowy way 

Whereon I wend ; 
God of the wanderer. 
Chorus Thy comfort send. 

Hear ye, O hear the heavenly whisper falling 

Far out where lost one's roam, 
Shepherd Immanuel through the dark is calling. 
"' / am the Way: come home!" 

Deeper the darkness grows, 

While on my soul 
Douhts, like a wintry sea, 

Drearily roll ; 
O for some mighty word. 

Proven, not guessed, 
Some tried foundation stone. 
Where Faith might rest ! 
Calm as the night-snows, windless woodlands wreathing. 

Sweet as lost songs of Youth, 
The Word Divine o'er all our douhts is breathing, 
''Believe mc: I am Truth!" 

Now must I lay me down — 

Done all my prayers, 
Ended alike my hopes 

Sorrows and cares ; 



THE CHILDREN'S PRAYER 137 



Harmless and helpless both i 

Foeman and friend — 
Lo, at the open door 

Death — and the end ! 1 

" Nay, though one die," saith Christ — O promise golden ! | 

" Yet shall he live again; j 

He that is mine shall not of Death he holden ( 

I am the Life!" Amen! Amen! 

The Children's Prayer j 

The time, O Lord, is long gone by, j 

The place is far away, 
That saw thee once on little heads 

Thy hands in blessing lay. 

Hast thou no blessings more to give? 

Can this thy mercy bar. 
That some may hear thy loving call i 

Too late, in lands too far? 

Nay, not Jiidean hills alone. 

Nor Sharon's plains are thine; 
The whole wide world of human need, 

To thee, is Palestine. 

I 
For us, for all, thy pangs of old. 

For us to-day thy scar?. 
And room will be in Jesus' arms 

While heaven has room for stars. 

i 
Then take us, Lord. We know not all j 

Thy blessings on us mean, ^ 

We only know that heads like ours j 

Must have somewhere to lean. i 



138 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Make us to feel the eternal arms 

That fold us to thy breast, 
And, like the little ones we are. 

We'll leave thee all the rest. 

The Waiting World 

What see ye, O ye mountains strong, 

That lift your heads on high. 
And in the dark and in the dawn, 

Look out across the sky? 
" The dark and dawn they come and go, 

But we look out alway 
To see if yet begins to break 

The Lord's Redemption Day." 

Ye little brooks, why hurry so? 

The roses, as ye pass. 
Can scarce their bending faces see 

In such a shaking glass. 
A sigh along the ripples ran. 

I heard the bubbles' song, 
" We haste to greet the coming King — 

How long, O Lord, how long?" 

Ye winds that wander to and fro. 

And gossip east and west. 
What is't ye whisper in the leaves 

That will not let them rest? 
The winds made answer low and strange- 

" We bid them ready be 
To clap their hands all round the world, 

When men His sign shall see." 



THE HEALER 



139 



The plodding ox before the plough, 

The huddled sheep in stall — 
The patient slaves or prey of Man, — 

Like answer made for all. 
All groaning, wait the day, the prince, 

That Man's redemption bring; 
But when the tale was told to men. 

They said, "What day? What king?" 

The Healer 

Because the Lord hath bruised thee, thou hast balm 
For others' wounds, and writ deep in thy palm 

Wearest the signet of that pain and power; 
For what thine eyes did once at Bethany 
Sorrow's wan sisterhood still turns to thee. 

And Grief's long storm falls to a soothing shower. 

Because thou wast forsaken on the tree 

Thou knowest to comfort them that desolate be 

When they are dying; and since thyself hast trod 
Death's vale unshepherded, the Roman spear 
Thine only rod and staff, thou wilt be near 

When we go lonely to keep tryst with God. 






W.-i^M^^lt^ ^■'t, ■ 







140 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



In That Land 

There is singing sweet, and gladness, 

In that land ; 
There is never note of sadness. 
In that land, 
But the sweetest of the anthems chanted on the glassy sea. 
Is the song of homing pilgrims who were some time such 

as we ; 
Men and maids and little children, now forevermore to be 
In the glory of the golden land 

There is freedom from old sorrow, 

In that land, 
And they care not for to-morrow. 
In that land ; 
Nay, to-day's enough and over, murmur they with hearts 

that swell 
With the joys too big for keeping, yet too strangely sweet 

to tell. 
Though they poured their souls in music with the voice 
of Israfel, 

In the glory of the golden land. 

There are heroes of old story, 

In that land, 
And they bring their pomp and glory. 
In that land ; 
They that here were meek and lowly, share with them 

each shining hall. 
And there's never one a weakling, shamed or pitied, 'mid 

them all ; 
Never one the Lord Almighty doth not son or daughter call. 
In the glory of the golden land. 



THE ANGEL OF THE PASSION 141 



Peace is flowing like a river, 

In that land ; 
Toil and care are gone forever, 
In that land, 
And they lie at ease, and wonder at their half-forgotten 

fears, 
For a hand that here was wounded, there shall wipe away 

their tears, 
And the King's first look of welcome lights their souls a 
thousand years. 

In the glory of the golden land. 



The Angel of the Passion 

Angel of angels, haloed in his hair. 

Musing he stands while heaven around him rings. 
His shadowy eyes alone, like woodland springs, 

Flashing their hallelujahs. Low and rare 

His speech ; nor work, nor fellow hath he there ; 
Nor 'mid that company of seraphs, kings. 
And potentates, is there another brings 

A greater glory. Yet is this his share 

Of heaven — to wander mindful where the trees 
Their shadows loose along th' immortal sod ; 

To hear ONE crying; Kedron on the breeze 
Murmuring; and coming feet in armor shod 
Clank from the hill-side ; then to feel 'mid these 

His breast once more upbear his dying God. 



142 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



An Old Man's Prayer 

We do not ask that blessing, Lord, 

Thou dost on babes bestow, 
The innocence thou lovest in them 

We lost long years ago. 

If but the Young thy face may seek, 

The Good thy kindness sue, 
Our hopes are vanished all, for we 

Are old and sinful too. 

Too old to claim thy favor here. 

Too bad to hope for heaven, 
One boon alone of thee we crave — 

It is — to be forgiven. 

Thou hast thine own hairs white as wool, 

Ancient of Days art thou ! 
Great God, to whom shall old men go ? 

Be thou our helper now. 

In Old Jerusalem 

("Like unto children, sitting in the market place." Matt. 11:17.) 

"Ho, Reuben, Anna, Benjamin!" 

Rings out the eager call, 
" Haste to the empty market-place. 

Come, playmates, one and all ; 
The trade is done, the merchants gone. 

Let each small man and maid 
Run hither now to share the fun." 

— Who watches in the shade? 



IN OLD JERUSALEM H3 



"What shall we play? A marriage feast? 

Good! Little Ruth is bride, 
And Reuben shall the bridegroom be, 

Sit down there side by side. 
While we join hands, and, piping shrill, 

The wedding dance begin. 
Sing now ! "—The Listener by the wall 

Smiles at the merry din. 



" In dizzy whirl, with laugh and shout. 

This way and that we swing. 
And quick feet patter in and out, 

And blithe our voices ring ; 
Long life we wish the happy pair. 

Fond hearts and fortunes due "— 
Look at yon careworn Watcher now ! 

His eyes are dancing too. 



"But, Nathan, why do you stand still? 

You will not dance, you say? 
Well, if we play a funeral 

Goes slowly down the way. 
With you chief mourner by the bier 

To knock your breast and groan— 
Then will you play?"— The stranger's eyes 

With kindling pity shown. 
10 



144 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



He waits to hear the lad's reply, 

And soon, with patient feet, 
Goes on his way; and darkness falls. 

And silent grows the street ; 
But in the amber of his speech, 

For all the coming years, 
The Master sets the children's play 

That now he sees and hears. 

Like children." Are we? Lord, then turn 

This way thy shining feet 
That go no more to Calvary ; 

Look on while we repeat 
This older, sadder game of life 

With strong men's hopes and fears ; 
Smile on our joys, and when we weep, 

O Master, wipe our tears. 



The Sighing in the Pines 

Under the pillared stems 

I laid me doivn, 
Wind-music high o'erhead 

Under me, brozvn 

Pine-needles piled; and while 

The twilight gleam 
Lingered along the hills, 

I dreamt this dream. 



THE SIGHING IN THE PINES 145 



The pine tree cried to God, 
(When Time was new) 

" The apple tree bears fruit 
And blossoms too. 

" And even the crooked vine 
By Eden's wall 
Its purple clusters fills 
Against the fall. 

" But never sound of bees 
My summer owns ; 
Ripe Autumn brings me naught 
But rattling cones. 

" Weary am I to bear 

These green harp-strings, 
Weary to hear the songs 
The gay wind sings 

" Among these slender boughs 
Thou madest a lute — 
Take back thy songs, O Lord, 
And give me fruit." 
* * * * 
Lo ! on yon hill outside 

Jerusalem, 
With Heaven and Earth at gaze, 
Uprears a stem, 



146 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



A felled and riven trunk, 

Sapless and stark. 
And ONE uplifted there, 

Dies in the dark. 

The pine tree hath its prayer — 

For gain or loss — 
This was the fruit it bore — 

HIM on his cross. 

And nevermore, though winds 

Still frolic be, 
Are the old songs of mirth 

Heard in that tree; 

But through its quivering leaves, 

Too late made wise. 
One sound unceasing swells, 

A sound of sighs. 




THE TEST 147 



The Test 

How shall we know our Lord when first we wake 

In heaven? If in the drear Aegean isle 

An angel's glory could e'en John beguile 

To misplaced worship, may not we mistake 

Michael for Christ, and so, untimely, break 

Our box ©f ointment? Strange to us the smile 

Immanuel wears, nor have we e'er, the while 

Our hearts burned in us, listened when He spake 

As He did once at Emmaus. We know 

Nor Him nor angels, and in His own lands 

He doth not alway crowned and Godlike go. 

But moves — just Jesus! — 'mid His eager bands 

Of old companions ; yet this sign shall show 

Our king and Heaven's — He still hath wounded hands. 



Johanan 

" Hence now, ye little ones, Naomi, Dan, 
And Samuel, go play there by the wall 
Where fig-leaves whisper and the fountain leaps 
To pour cool kisses round your twinkling feet. 
Hath He not blessed you? Get you gone, I say. 
But Thou, O Mighty, hear me." 

" Speak. I hear." 

" Thou dost but waste Thy blessing upon these, 
O Nazarene. Why wilt Thou feast the full, 
Or light Thy lamp at noonday? Mark them there, 
Their songs, their laughter! Nay, what greater thing 
Could the great God give to these happy ones 
Than that they have, being babes? But come Thou hence, 



148 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



I'll show Thee men old, withered, hard of heart, 
And wicked, even as I ; men not more like 
Their childhood than the sad Salt Sea is like 
Its youth, the Jordan. On them desolate, 
Turn the mild pity of Thy tranquil eyes. 
And make them know the marvel of Thy voice 
Who have no mother hands to lead them here, 
Nor yet are fit to come." 

" Yea, friend, who will 
May come," the answer fell. " And thou, oppressed 
With others' ills, what wilt thou for thine own ? " 

Doubt, hope, and wonder held Johanan dumb 
Till on his ears once more the children's glee 
Tinkled, as when all Hermon's rills a-chime 
Sing summer. Then he cried, " Make me, O Lord, 
As one of these." 

Instant on that white head 
Bowed low, were laid the gentle hands foredoomed 
To nail-prints, and the voice that made the world 
Whispered above him and he stood up changed. 

Alway thereafter 'mid the childish throng 

An old man moved, simple and glad of heart 

And innocent as they. Malice and pride 

Dropped from him as old leaves from wakening pines 

At touch of spring. Men mocked at him, and some 

In secret envied ; he, in sweet content 

Went on his simple way till one still eve 

They found him sitting by the fountain wall 

With small Naomi nestling in his arms. 

And both asleep ; she pillowed on his breast. 

And he on God's. 



DOMINION 



149 



Dominion 

When mine own senses all 

Shall governed be, 
Walled like a river, like 

A river free : 

When these swift thoughts no more 

Like blown leaves fly. 
But ordered range, as wild-fowl 

Cleave the sky : 

When on the will enthroned 

The passions wait, 
Meek as the homing kine 

At pasture gate : 

Mine then shall be no pride, 

No glorying. 
But all my powers reclaimed 

I'll straightway bring 

Praying to Him who owns 

The tribute due 
"I am thy slave. Lord, give 

Me work to do." 




150 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



An Old Fashioned Sport 

When chestnut trees are beaten bare. 

And hickory leaves turn yellow — 
When dropping papaws fill the air 

With perfume rich and mellow, 
We boys steal off in early night 

While whimpering screech-owls shiver, 
And by the pine-knot's flickering light, 

Go gigging down the river. 

Our blazing prow in crystal swims ; 

We hear a wind-blown tinkle 
Of hidden rills, and through the limbs 

Stars peep, and home lights twinkle 
On distant hills; and there below 

Where restless reeds are swaying, 
A silent circle widens slow — 

The muskrat's door betraying. 

Alert I lean along the bow 

With slender gig held ready. 
While Ben now poles the boat, and now 

Stands still, and holds her steady. 
The fallen leaves in squadrons pass. 

Each leaf its shadow throwing. 
Till which are shadows, which are bass, 

Is often past our knowing. 



THE WICKET GATE 151 



The townsman rigged with rod and reel, 

When summer suns are burning, 
With angler's art here fills his creel. 

Our rustic methods spurning. 
But each to each his own delights — 

No keener sport we're wishing 
Than here in soft September nights 

To try our Indian fishing. 

And oft again, in wintry dreams, 

Our boyish fancies straying. 
Glide backward down the darkling streams 

Where memory's torch is playing; 
Again the steel is aimed true. 

And down young nerves a-quiver 
Tingles afresh the thrill they knew 

When gigging on the river. 



The Wicket Gate 

I wait no ghostly steed 
That strong men, armed and soldierly, must ride 
Out a-past Rigel to life's yonder side — 

Let him who will, with speed 
And sweat and fury think to gallop in 
Upon God's peace, and so his heaven to win 

I like another rede. 



T52 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



No stirrup-cup for me. 
Perched on yon pawing courser ; but, if so 
A dying man may choose, I'll gentlier go ; 

I'll look right leisurely 
All round the study; if it's wintry weather. 
Take tongs, and once more coax the logs together, 

And pile up two or three 

Well-worn old books that lie 
Open there on the table; then I'll call 
My household in, and take dear leave of all, 

Short speech, but lingering eye 
Giving to each ; and last with footstep slow 
Leaning on Him who came for me, I'll go. 

But when I first descry 

Somewhat beside His face — 
"Is this the way?" I'll ask in swift surprise, 
" Your way," He'll answer me, with shining eyes. 

For Lo ! we do but pace 
Mine own green lane that past the garden goes, 
And were 't but summer, still I'd smell the rose, 

We've come such little space. 

And my heaven will begin, 
I think, a little past the garden wall — 
There'll be a wicket gate, not rich nor tall. 

And until then, unseen ; 
That shall I find; and silent or with singing, 
For good or ill, by that low wicket swinging. 

My guide will bring me in. 



CHILDREN'S PRAISE 153 



Children's Praise 

All the young world praiseth thee — 
Breezes born in shaded spaces, 
Lisping rills in lonely places, 
Nestlings at their matin graces, 
Rustling leaves in elfin glee — 
In their music. Lord, praise thee. 

All the bright world praiseth thee — 
Lilies pale and stars that twinkle. 
Diamond dews that roses sprinkle, 
Crystal waves that flash and tinkle, 
Rainbow arch on shining sea — 
In their beauty. Lord, praise thee. 

Yet they know not what they do — 
Sun and song come with the season. 
Song and sun are all their reason, 
Not to shine and sing were treason. 
And to time and season true. 
They but pay their tribute due. 

Hear, Lord, what the children sing — 
All the wordless music rarest, 
All the voiceless beauty fairest. 
All the wide earth's richest, dearest, 
Blended in our songs we bring 
In our praise to thee, O king. 



154 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



The Second Sight 

New waked to meet the judgment scene, 

He stood before the throne 
Amid unnumbered humankind, 

And thought he stood alone. 

A scroll was thrust into his hands. 

Close-writ, and long and long. 
" 'Tis thus," they cried, " thy record runs, 

This hast thou done of wrong." 

He little heeds : like new-roused child, 

The sleep yet in his eyes. 
On one bright Face he gazes still 

With still renewed surprise. 

" Stand forth ! " he hears. " What plea hast thou 

To stay the avenging rod ? " 
" This only," wondering still he cries, 

"Behold the Lamb of God." 

A light, a rapture, thrills the scene ; 

A silence falls; and then 
In deeps star-deep beyond the stars 

Rolls echoing, " Amen ! " 

And, like a great wind heard by night. 

Far breathes the word, " Forgiven : 
And that I gave thee Him on earth 

Now give Him thee in Heaven." 



HIS HIDDEN ONE 



His Hidden One i 

j 
Ere the grass conquered him and trod him under, 

The nested sparrows mocked his homeless head : ^ 

To-day his palace fair, heaven's newest wonder, 

Lifts its white dome with glory garnished. 

He had not dreamed here with the great to seat him; ^ 

In lowly paths remote he meekly trod ; 
Yet ranged seraphs stood uncrowned to greet him, j 

What time he heard the clear " well done," of God. ' 

( 

Pent for long years was he in fleshly prison, I 

His weary soul wore deep the dungeon scar, 
But now to fair far heights right royal risen, | 

The angels hail him lord of the morning star. i 



" Arise, Let Us Go Hence " 

Out of the upper chamber, 

After the feast is done, 
Out of the blessed circle 

With Judas only gone, 
Out of the growing comfort 

The Master's word bestows. 
Out of the peace where all doubts cease 

And all strife silent grows — 
" Arise, let us go hence." 



IS6 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Over the murmuring Kedron, 

Into the garden's gloom, 
Into a foreseen anguish, 

Unto a foretold doom, 
Unto the kiss of traitors, 

The faithlessness of friends, 
Into the hour of the tempter's power. 

When Hell with Heaven contends — 
"Arise, let us go hence." 

Ever the warning soundeth 

Through all the ages, clear 
As a harsh bell's jangling clamor 

Breaks on a dreaming ear. 
Or as the cry of terror 

Which no wild winds can drown 
When a vessel shocks on the sunken rocks 

And men to death go down — 
" Arise, let us go hence." 

O sharp, O sudden summons ! 

But soft ! What does he say ? 
" Let us go hence ? " Yea, Master, 

If Thou but lead the way. 
The straitest, sternest pathway 

That ever mortal trod 
Shall welcome be since we go with Thee 

In a road that leads to God — 
" Arise, let us go hence." 



ST. STEPHEN'S VISION 157 



St. Stephen's Vision 

So Stephen spoke. Then leaped their startled rage 
Like the coiled viper when the passing heel 
That crushes it is raised. They hated him 
As blasted pines hate lightning. But the while 
Their hissing fury rose, the patient saint, 
Already angel-faced, was given to see 
What angels only may : the opening heavens 
Flashed on him awestruck, and he saw the King. 
High on His throne He stood new risen, attent, 
August ; His station such that heaven expects 
New marvels great. His vesture droops away 
In refluent curves of wind-carved snow ; His hair 
Of curled light blows wide. Forward He leans 
With outstretched hand, as if in act to greet 
Some equal Majesty who comes to-day 
Into his kingdom ; and His eyes meanwhile 
Orbing such Godlike welcome, as, being turned 
On chaos, life and light and love would spring 
In ruin's womb responsive, or but glanced 
On devil deepest damned, would draw him up 
And straight remake him angel. 

Him beheld 
Stephen, first martyr. What thereafter lay 
He little heeded. 

'Mid that after rain 
Whose every drop was death, he, mute and still, 
Was like a cradled child that tranced lies 
Still wrapt in rosy dreams, altho' loud War 
Rages around, and momently the walls 
Crash into ruin. 



158 THE ANTEROOM AND OTHER POEMS 



Caught to highest heaven, 
Long time he gazes on that face divine 
With speechless love, the while God's domed halls 
Reverberate with welcome : then kneels down 
And prays high God to make him man again 
And martyr, if through death's dark doors once more 
That vision he may see. 




♦Tint^ ♦ 




OCT 26 19tf 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



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